

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shelf 








■ f '• 





Hum 





. M 'sA^jAiAt f ^ 1 

iH 

I2« 

^p-^.vw 


H^Ahh w T! A W Al aI 

fWTlAT wH '■Blli'i^Wllilli 




1 







i' * > 




• 



% 


P 


I 


/ 


* I 







ii 




* * V ^ f * i -> f • ' * ^ ' 

•’'T M' ■ . 

. - • , . *■ * f If -. .• * • ■•• 


'I ' 


^ r.y^- 

/ -s ' 


t»* * •i ' s. •' 


'W 


f\ 


fXf 


•* 

, ,1, V 


* .* . V < 

. V . s ' ■ i . . •> 


, t 




j.* 


. '.'V - 


' V 


m « 


c«>- V 


'■ 


. s 



r, -V 


m^:.' 


A* 


U •- 

. • 


I ( 


'•;** :y 

- .> j » 


[/r ^■..'•v <;, - 


' l/- 


s . 





^•,'v * ' ^ • •■ / •> / v .^ . 

• ' - ";' ■^-Tv. i','/.'/'t\..i ■- w 

•' ~ - '.'h, 

v.v .^ .>felv :’ ■ ' ' - r '/F 


/ 1 r. 








•'?.v1 


' .Mr^‘ 




',M 


;/; • •■ '“v ' ^ ‘ 

1 « <> ^ ’ • > , 7 ’ .• «• i • 

■f .fe*4* f\‘ ■ ^. V -A, / * \ ^ ■ . 

vVj- . 

^ • » ‘ V • . i ’ r . •- * ■ * I ii * . • \ . *v - > * 


:i>r '•' 






t « 


3%.^ ';''?■%!■ . 

M .. ■■ 


fl ’ f * V * g . ji * 

- ■. w' 




I ki i . 


-I . 


>‘'.r 





r* 


I « 


/•**'» ‘ 

« * ■% • 4 


I < 


f .*> .• , 


« * s 

1 '• 


' -• 


y 



t-4 


•’■ ^ ' ’ J *' *■*' ' V ^ 

V-.' > ’• '*' 


'*^V ■••' 




• 


■.'■.• »iS';. 

i>’^ \5Si8*i'Vv . * 

- ■,' -v i'<> 

* * ^ 1 


- r < 

I i*'^ 


■ ; 


. f 




'1 




-v 

■■ ;j'^ '■' ' 



, !• 

t?|- 


i 4^ 


r- '• 


//!» ' 'I F . • • . * 

MlI. *4 '•* ' .' * 


f ~ . . 


^ * 


■V . J , . . 


/ 


■ i < ‘ 

t 


mK .r- > 


• 4 . » 


••• 

1 


• ’ A • 

V" • . V 

r 1 > k 



V 


« 


[*>?L ’ ■’ ■' 

Wr'itf'’VaV 



- V V • 

' jU-' 

Jf 

V,- ^ 

•* 



r^.* ' 







/ .‘1’ ■ ■’^' 


> ‘0 


.^r. 




.A. 


» • 

/i 


i- 


, r;;- ..W-* '' -ifta 

Rb '*’ . 


'■ .» 


4 . 


■ v-.v- .- ,' .-.r 

. iv. VI v /.-'^ 

- v,y;^.vl;W.*v^V . * 

* 1 \ ‘ 1*1 ■ * ' ' - . • ^' 


• ' • , • I 

r '. 


. ■. I f i ’ / 


*? •- 


/(v;; 

V. 


r I * 


’. .. i 


,:• ! 


t 

1 / 


V. 


V ’ •*• i i -HW 

•V . M*' •* 


\ •> 


> . 




V 


1 4 


(• ,- r ' • ■ - ', - 

^■'.'•.■i' . j^'-'. 'r,’:, , 




»• '-1 


V/rF’ 



■ -j f 


14 VO 


s4*rY ir4L 


ift 


tv 


• I 




'** V *■<• ‘ m ^' y - ■ ' 



•o 


f Vl, 

i. ' 


k 'ft 

r* 


•A 


V . 

I I '. . 

' Vkvl 




y, ,:,:^i|:^ ,...,:v..,:v V ; ^ 




.t 





fi 


^ ' 




* ’ • " 

k-i’ m. • -Mv^r 'iff<Lt.' 


V 





\ 












I'KIOI-: 30 CK.ll'rS 


i». »4r. ttoriiLE i»imiiti:K 


HENRY SCOTT VINCE 


17 TO 27 VaNdeW>mer 3 t 


itBl-lSf/. 


rignted 1«85, by George Munro-Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates, 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 


183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat. . . 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James 

Payn 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

David Christie Murray. 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

390 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 
thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 The Abbotr By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade. . 10 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Crokoi* 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsvmrth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana; Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible; Temptation. Chas. 

Reade — 15 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

216 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey 15 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 15 

217 3’he Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson ... 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 15 


NO. PRICE. 


219 Lady Clare ; or, The Master of 

the Forges. By Georges Ohnet 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

the author of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 15 

222 The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 15 

226 Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da” 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. By Charles 

Reade 15 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade. . . 10 

233 “ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 

Answered. Wilkie Collins.... 15 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade. . . 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida ” 20 

239 Signa. By “ Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” Firso 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 


248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called Back ” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita”.. 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


[continued on third page op cover.] 


AS AVON FLOWS 


By HENRY SCOTT VINCE. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 87 Vandswater Street. 



AS AVON FLOWS 


CHAPTER 1. 

MK. ABEL BOMPAS SELLS A HOUSE, AND THE PURCHASEH PUZZLES 

A TOWN. 

The town of Avonham in Marlshire was having a day-sleep. 

This was common enough to the place; when the sun was. fiercely 
beating down on the red roots and pointed gables, blistering the 
painted beams of the wood-frame houses, bleaching the well-washed 
pavement, and the cobble stones of the old market-place, touching 
up the face of the market clock with a blaze of glaring gold, and 
making of the motionless weather-cock on the church- steeple a 
burning arrow pointing to the hills from which no breezes came — 
when it drove the masterless curs into doorways and under garden 
bushes, and set prowling gats a-nodding in sight ot- their natural 
foes, when it fairly beat the inhabitants from the street, then Avon- 
ham used to puU down its blinds and indulge in a day-sleep. From 
the sixteen-arch ed bridge that spanned its river, to the Bear Hotel, 
that seemed to close in the end of the town, and keep a good look 
out down the road for any customer approaching, no one was astir in 
the street. Occasionally a white-aproned shirt-sleeved tradesman 
came to the door of his shop and gazed listlessly up and down, then 
yawning went back to his tradeless counter, and nodded himself to 
sleep again; the hum of the great mill-wheel at the bridge alone 
broke the silence,^ and the town seemed an appanage of the Sleeping 
Palace, waiting for the prince to come. 

It was a pleasant town enough as it lay in the blazing June sun. 
Planted in a valley, with tree-crowned hills at its western end, and 
watered by the pretty Avon, it stood in the midst of a smiling land 
of plenty. Around it and bounded only by the wooded hills on one 
side, and the great chalk hills of the downs to its east, were meadows 
rich with waving grass, in which the feeding kine stood knee deep. 
Thf river breaking from the chalk was clear as crystal, and sparkled 
through the valley in generous, ever-full stream that turned count- 
less wheels and rushed over little wears with pleasant^lash, little 
wears at the f ootof which lurked speckled trout and bold-mting perch j 
at the town it flashed under a sixieen-arched bridge, built % some 
ancient abbot of the priory whose ruins stood just outside the town, 
and whose Hospitium was still the front of tlie old Bear Hotel. 
From this bridge to the hotel ran the great broad street which formed 
the principal portion of the town ; on the right were the market-place 
and town hall, ou the left the t\YO local bank$ and the residences of 


6 


AS AYOJSr FLOWS. 


the magnates, the successful banker, the respected gray-headed solic- 
itor, and the flourishing old fashioned country doctor. Then, at the 
top of the town, stood the old Bear, snuggest and coziest of inns, 
with large yard still echoing to the feet of post-horses and coach-, 
horses, and the spanking tits that drew the traps of the dashing 
commercial travelers, who still drove their journey through pleasant 
Marlshire, for there was no railway that had reached Avonham, and 
the nearest station was five miles away. 

Kow the Bear, standing at the top of the town, and having been 
the ancient gate-house of the great abbey, had blocked the straight 
street up, and, as the place had grown in size, had caused the over- 
flow of population to betake itself to two side streets ruifSing left 
and right of it: one past the church, and round by a small stream 
that joined the Avon Here, and the other branching down to the river 
itself. At the head of one of these streets stood the splendid Abbey 
Church of St. Hildegarde’s, with its spacious ct^urch-yard, crossed 
by a paved walk leading to the street in question, which it reached 
by steps. Beyond this church-yard were the Grammar School, and 
some houses of the better class, and backing on to the little, Mardeu 
were the grounds of the Priory House. This was a large and im- 
posing mansion, with finely wooded grounds concealed from public 
view by high walls. In the other side street were both private 
houses and shops, together with some oflSces and a brewery; and 
lower down, and nearer the river, stood a neat modern villa, in some 
grounds which ran to the Avon. 

One of the houses of this street, called from its direction, South 
Street, was a combination of private house and office, and in one of 
the rooms of this house on this particular hot day sat a highly re- 
spectable family, consisting of father, mother, and three pretty 
daughters, engaged in discussing the penultimate course of an En- 
glish middle-class mid-day dinner. The buxom, smiling matron 
was seated opposite a smoking pudding, of which she had trans- 
ferred a slice to a plate; she was preparing to pass it to her husband, 
who sat at the head of the table, when that worthy man stayed the 
progress of the dainty with an arresting wave'of the hand. 

“ 1 thank you, Louisa, but 1 will not take any.'' 

“ JNot take any, Abel?” 

No pudding, papa?” 

“ No, Louisa; no, my children. Pudding, my dears — pudding 
is — (no more ale, thank you, Jane) — is — as 1 may say, a — kind of 
pro-vi-sion for the mind— I mean for the body— yes, the body — it is 
the body that is benefited by the pudding, but the mind, my dears, 
the mind must work— must work with the body.'' 

” "Well, papa, what has that to do with the pudding?” 

” This, my dears — to cloy — or, as some authorities (from whom 1 
entirely disagree) would say, to clog—\o clog or cloy the body is a — 
metaphysically speaking — to cloy or clog the brain; and the brain 
needs not that--shall 1 sayclogment? yes, clogment — or rather cloy- 
ment; yes, certainly, cloyment. So that if (as would be tire case 
to-day were I not firm) 1 cloy— cloy is certainly the better word— 1 
cloy the brain by this pudding — then it will follow, as the night the 
day, as 1 believe is remarked by Shakespeare — that the brain and the 
mind, being cloyed by pudding, will not be in— ah— apposition, may 


AS AVON FLOWS. 'i' 

1 say? and they will not work together. I make myself clear, my 
clears, 1 hope?-’ 

“ My dear papa, is your brain called upon for any very extraor- 
dinary effort to day?” 

“ My dears, I may, without violation of any of the more delicate 
secrets of my profession of house and estate agent and auc-tion-eer 
mention that tiie elegant and convenient villa residence known as 
the Coombes, together with the modern and handsome furniture—” 

” My dear Abel, we have all read the bill — what of the Coombes?” 

“My dear Louisa— I am coming to . it— I have received from 
Messrs. Golding and West, whose names as the— ah— solicitors to 
the estate, are doubtless familiar to you—” 

” Yes, papa, well?” 

” An intimation, *my dears, that 1 shall to*day be waited upon by 
a gentleman who will purchase the property as it stands.” 

Furniture and all?” 

“ Furniture and all.” 

“ What is his name, Abel?” 

‘ My dear, 1 am not in possession of it. 1 am to meet him, or 
rather he is to call upon me here, at two pre-cise-ly, and as it wants 
but five minutes of the appointed hour, and as you are aware that 
anything approaching unpunctualit}^ is most repugnant to me, 1 will 
— ah — retire to the office at once and await him.” 

Mr. Abel Bompas rose, puddingless and imposing, and left the 
room, where, as soon as his august back was turned, there arose the 
usual Babel of speculation aM wonder, as to the coming stranger 
and his intended purchase. For the Coombes was nearly opposite 
Mr. Bompas’s house, and of course a great deal depended, so thought 
the Misses Bompas, upon whether the new-comei “were married or 
single, had daughters or sons in the family, were hospitable or not; 
in fact, whether they were going to have as neTghbors ” nice ” peo- 
ple or the reverse. 

Not that the ladies of our friend Mr. Abel Bompas were more 
curious than the position warranted. For you shall walk many 
miles, my susceptible young bachelor friend, before you shall find 
three prettier roses clustered on one stem than Miss Adelaide, Miss 
Lucy, and Miss Louisa, 1 promise you. Rosy with health, frank 
and open, as sparkling as the stream on which they rowed their 
pretty skiff, and as breezy as the downs over which they daily gal- 
loped, they were of the fairest and best type of good, honest, £n ■ 
glish girls. And if you place these three young ladies in a dull old 
country town, where a concert is a dissipation, and a yeomanry ball 
a delirium of delight, where the same ” young men ” are seen dis 
' porting themselves in the same ” best clothes ” Sunday after Sun- 
day, in an age before Volunteers, and when lawn-tennis was not; 
and then confront them with the prospect of fresh comers, residing 
in a house nearly opposite, which has been un ten anted for eight 
months, and whose last occupant. Major Currie, H.E.I.C.S., never 
showed, on account of congested liver, and was as yellow as a had- 
dock and as touchy as a squib, 1 think you will allow that the con- 
versation of the young ladies was perfectly natural, and that even if 
Mrs. Bompas herself gave way to the prevailing feeling, and sur- 


8 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 


raised and hoped as eagerly as her daughters, the good lady in no 
way overstepped the undoubted privileges of a true British matron. 

Meanwhile, the head ot the family crossed the hall, with which 
high-sounding title a thiee-feetmine passage was dignified, and 
opened the door of a small square room, fitted with all the comfort- 
less austerities ot counting-house furniture, and bearing on its wire 
blinds the title and description of its owner, who seated himself in 
an arm-chair, behind an appallingly stubborn table-desk, and, open- 
ing a tremendous volume, in which no man could have written 
whilst seated, awaited the coming of his expected visitor. 

Mr. Bompas was by no means an ill-looking house and estate 
agent. Prosperity and complacency had so stamped their pleasing 
impressions on his brdad and fresh-colored face that even had not 
his features of themselves been regular in outline he would have 
been redeemed from anything approaching ugliness; but they were, 
if not classically, at least regularly, cut ; his forehead was ample, 
his chin round and cleanly shaven, his hair was carefully arranged, 
and his whiskers — well, they were British; and what is more re- 
spectable per se than the British whisker? His business had been 
transmitted to him by hie father, and was an easy and pleasant one; 
he had married a pretty Marlshire lass, the daughter of a well-to-do 
corn- dealer, who had amply dowered his only child, and he himself 
had been honestly and patiently adding to his wealth for years, until 
it was pretty well known in Marlshire that Mr. Bompas of Avon- 
ham, the leading auctioneer and estate agent ot the county, a man 
who was employed and trusted by sfll the family solicitors around, 
was one of the warmest men of even that shire of flourishing graziers, 
prosperous cheese factors and brewers with purses deep. Twice had 
he filled the office ot mayor of his native town of Avonham with a 
Roman consul kind of dignity which had filled the neighboring 
municipalities with envy, and his own corporation with awe. His 
movements were elephantinely delicate and his conversation was 
slow and stately to a degree, being modeled, indeed, upon the 
speeches of those exponents of the oratory of the Georgian era, for 
the choicest examples of whose glowing and burning words the 
reader is referred to “ Enfield’s Speaker.’' 

From the main street of Avonham a door communicated with Mr. 
Bompas ’s offices, and punctually 'as the clock of St. Hildegarde’s 
struck two, it opened and admitted a stranger. The clerk in the 
outer office, who was an articled pupil of Mr. Bompas, slid from the 
dizzy height of a most uncompromising office-stool and faced the 
new-comer. 

1 am here by appointment with Mr. Bompas; is he in?’! 

“ The 2 :entleinan about the Coombes, 1 believe,” said the smiling 
youth, anxious to have the first portion of a conversation with a 
prospective buyer of a house, “ furniture and all.” 

The stranger immediately routed the astonished pupil by frown- 
ing and leplying: 

” 1 should think, my son, that it you hunted through this town, 
you’d find about enough churches and chapels to keep your beliefs 

f oing hard without pushing your creeds into business hours. If 
Ir. Bompas isn’t in, say so. I’m not here to listen to your Belief. 
It’s not a catechism class.” 


AS AVON I’LOirS. 


9 


The articled pupil opened his eyes and faintly gasped. The un-^ 
expected reply had fairly taken away his breath. The farraers and 
dealers who came into the office were glad enough to stay and lightly 
chat with Mr. Adolphus Carter, the son of a Marlshire vicar; the 
solicitors were always friendly, and, knowing his father, and his 
prospects, extended to him the right hand of^fellowship, compara- 
tive friendship, that is to say; to the clerks of other callings Mr. 
Carter was ineffably condesc<inding and sometimes overbearing, re- 
garding only solicitors’ articled pupils and bank cashiers as anything 
like his equals, and here was a perfect stranger answering his little 
surmise, made in his liveliest manner, that which he reserved for 
principals alone, as shortly and sternly as he, Adolphus, would 
have answered a grocer’s boy who ventured to ask him of his health. 
It was his first snub in that office, and wffien he had recovered his 
wits, which had suffered rudely from the shock, he registered the 
assailant as a deadly enemy on whom consummate vengeance muni 
one day surely fall, before answering in a feeble voice, and with 
every trace of his usual vivacity eliminated; 

Mr. Bompas is in, sir; please to walk in.” 

He was so completely crushed that although he had been burning 
all the morning to know the name of the intended purchaser of the 
Coombes, he did not now ask it, but, opening the door of Mr. 
Bompas’s inner private office, ushered him in. Then he returned to 
his desk, clutched his ruler convulsively, and seemed as totally over- 
whelmed by the encounter as though he had been worsted by a 
waterspout. 

He, who had temporarily obliterated this aspiring youth, and who 
now stood in the presence of the great Mr. Bompas himself, was a 
young man of about thirty years of age, of fair complexion, with a 
mustache ot* that sandy shade which, albeit it betokens Anglo-Dan- 
ish blood, is so much despised of maidens at first sight: his chestnut 
hair v/as short, his eyes were very -blue and bright, and saved his 
face from downright plainness. “His form was not cast in a particu- - 
larly elegant mold, nor were his hands and feet especially suggest- 
ive of high-born rank, but he was squarely and muscularly built, 
if anything a little too broad for his medium" height, his arms long, 
and his hands large. In one hand he carried a pair of tanned driv- 
ing gloves, in the other a stout stick of some foreign wood. He was 
quietl}^ and tvell-dressed in dark clothes, which assorted well with 
his calm and apparently imperturbable manner. He bowed to x\Ir. 
Bompas, who rose to meet him, and at once accosted, that gentle- 
man, speaking with an accent not to be identified as belonging to 
any particular outlying portion of the Anglo-Saxon-speaking race, 
but suggestive of a long residence somewhere beyond sea. 

‘‘ You’ve the selling of that house over yonder, Mr. Bompas.” 

‘‘The Coombes, my dear sir— the Coombes. lhave. Pray be 
seated. 1 anticipated your arrival from a communication 1 received 
from my esteemed — a — correspondents, Messrs. Golding and West.’' 

“Yes, they told me the price at which you would sell the house 
and land, but they couldn’t say anything about the furniture; said 
they thought there was to be a sale. Is that so?” 

“ It was so intended, sir, but the lady who owns-^'"* 

“ Lady! oh, a lady’s the owner.’’ 


10 AS iTON PLOWS. 

“ Mrs. Stanhope, a widow lady, is the owner, Mr. — ” 

‘‘ Galbraith— that^s my name/’ 

“ Mr. Galbraith— Mrs. Stanhop^ad instructed me tousell by auc- 
tion, and 1 had, with a view to that step, prepared a schedule or 
inventory from which I should, in due course, have compiled a 
catalogne as is— ah — customary at such sales. But on receipt ot in- 
formation as to your intended interview, 1 — ah— suspended opera- 
tions pending your arrival, ” 

Mr. Bompas appeared greatly satisfied with the ring of this 
speech, for he softly murmured the last few words over again to 
himself. 

“ Well, 1 like the house and grounds, and the furnitui^ will do 
for a bachelor; what is the total price for everything, just as it 
stands?” 

“ The house you are aware is—” 

“ Sixteen hundred pounds 1 was told, but 1 want a lump sum for 
the whole concern.” 

“1 am not prepared as yet to give a decided answer on that point; 
indeed 1 am not quite— ah— authorized to do so,. my dearisir, but—” 

“ Does this lady, Mrs. — ” 

” Stanhope.” 

” Stanhope, live here?” 

” She resides, my dear sir, not three hundred yards from where 
we are now sitting. ” 

” Can you see her to-day?” 

” At once, at once, if you wish it.” 

“ Very well then, Mr. Bompas, you will find me at the Bear 
Hotel, where 1 am staying, and if you will go and see her 1 will 
await your answer there. Tell her, please, that 1 will give her two 
thousand pounds — pounds mind, not guineas — that coin is out of 
circulation — lor the house, furniture, and fittings, just as it stands.” 

. ” Would you not— ah — prefer to see the furniture and fittings be- 
fore making an ofter, which you seem to wish to be a — ah — definite, 
and— ah — decisive one?” 

Seen ’em, sir, seen ’em; 1 walked in there at six o’clock this 
morning, and went all over the house.” 

” ’Without an order, my dear sir?” exclaimed Mr. Bompas (Gal- 
braith was certainly fated to astonish house agents that day), ” with- 
out my written order?” 

” Just that,” replied the other, coolly, “ 1 saw an old woman in- 
side straightening things, and I went over the house under her guid- 
ance.” 

Mr. Bompas had no words with which to express his horror at 
this breach of professional routine; he stared at his visitor; but 
made no reply. 

‘‘I’ll wait at the Bear for two hours for Mrs. Stanhooks— ” 

“ Stanhope, my dear sir, Stanhope.” 

” Stanhope’s answer— Good-day, sir!” 

Mr. Bompas returned the salutation and courteously escorted the 
stranger to the outer door, passing through the front office where 
Mr. Carter, still more or less under the waterspout infiuence, glared 
fiercely at his foe, and then, without noticing his pupil, betook him- 
self slowly and pensively to his private room. His face wore a puz- 


AS AYOIS* FLOWS* 


11 


zled expression ; the coolness with, which Galbraith had made his 
otier, and the— to him— unparalleled incident of the morning visit 
to the house," a visit paid when he who should have been all power- 
ful in the matter was comfortably slumbering, had somewhat dis- 
turbed his mind, and it was with some slight perturbation and a lit- 
tle abatement of his usual dignity that he sought once more the 
bosom of his family. 

He paused a moment at the door before opening it, and softly 
enumerated to himself the heads of his astonishment. 

“ He— ah — walks over the house without my written order — 
strange! 

“ He— ah— seems most uncertain about Mrs. Stanhope's name — 
curious! 

“ And he— ah— makes an ofler for a house and— ah— furniture as 
though it were for a — ah — cow! a cow in the market-place ! — a most 
extraordinary young man!” 

Another few moments were spent with his hand upon the handle 
of the door of his private room, he then slowly and softly turned, 
and, instead of entering, took his hat from a peg and sallied forth 
on his errand. 

Emerging from South Street, into the part of the High Street im- 
mediately in front of the Bear, Mr. Bompas perceived his late 
visitor strolling carelessly across the path of the church-yard and paus- 
ing occasionally to peruse some inscriptiun or observe some date. At 
the door of the Bear, lounged Mr. Pinniffer, the landlord, who ap- 
parently seemed no less interested in the figure in the church-yard 
than Mr. Bompas. This latter worthy was not long in perceiving 
the direction of the landlord’s gaze, and suddenly altering his route 
walked over to the door of the Bear. Many a time had" his portly 
form filled the chair at public dinners at the Bear, many church- 
warden’s, waywarden’s, charity, auditor’s accounts had been made 
up there after cold lunch, passed over punch, and voted correct at a 
dinner. He and Mr. Pinniffer were old cronies, for there was not a 
more “responsible” man in Avonham, not even excepting Mr. 
Bompas himself, than Mr. George Pinnifter, late Quartermaster- Ser- 
geant of Her Majesty’s Royal Marlshiie Fusileers, and now mine 
host of the Bear Hotel of his native town, whither he had retired 
with a good conduct pension, a couple of medals, and many honor- 
able scars. 

“ Ter’ble hot, Mr. Bompas, ter’ble hotfc be sure, sir,” said he, 
removing his stalwart form from the doorway, and welcoming Mr. 
Bompas in with a wave of the hand. “ 1 w'as a-thinking of seeing 
you this morning; but I had got my Marlham brewer here, and you 
knowl must see the malt fairly cast, lest the beer don’t turn out like 
the last lot. But if you’ll step into my bar-parlor — there’s not a soul 
there, sir — I’ll bring you in the rent, and take a receipt over as good 
a glass of cold punch as ever you’ve had here, sir, and that won’t be 
a oad one, I’ll pound it!” - 

Mr. Bompas assented to the punch much in the manner of Jove 
accepting nectar, and the pair repaired to a cozy snuggery behind 
the bar where, after a short comparison of papers, and an exchange 
of bank-notes, coin, and receipts, the two sat down to their punch 


AS AVOK -FLOWS. 


n 

solemnly and sedately, as befitted men who bad just discharged an 
important portion of the business of life. 

It having been mutually agreed that the weather was fine, that 
the hay promised well, and that most of it would be in in a week, if 
the weather held, Mr. Bonipas turned the conversation slowly and 
deliberately to the stranger. Mr. Pinnifier showed himself much 
interested in the fact that his unknown customer was a man of sub- 
stance and house-buying ability, and then confessed that although 
he (Pinniffer) had seen many men and many cities, he had never in 
his life seen a cooler, oftei -handed gentleman than the subject of 
their discourse, seen by both of them -through the little window of 
the bar-parlor, standing in front of the church-yard gate, cigar in 
^ mouth, and gazing down the silent and glaring street. 

“ He came over in the omnibus last evening about eight. He 
walked straight in and called for a pint o’ champagne; •had it put 
into a clean pewter and took it.ofi: like a — like— a — ’’ Mr. Pinnifier 
hesitated a moment, and then rushing at bis simile, said, “ like a 
marine, He paused and sipped his punch before resuming. 

“ He sent his portmanteau up to his room and stood at the door a 
bit, and then he turns round and, says he, ‘ Landlord,’ says he. 

* Yes, sir,’ I says. ‘ Landlord,’ says he, ‘ are there any houses to 
let in this place?’ Well, Mr. Bompas, of course 1 told him about 
the Coombes and Mr. Miller’s little cottage, and told him your 
name, and where you lived and that, and then he turned round aiid 
says, ‘ ah!’ he says, ‘ 1 like the look of the town; get me some sup- 
per at nine, and I’ll look at the houses to-morrow.’ With that 
he walks off, comes back at "nine o’clock, has his supper and 
sits in the corner of the smoke-room for the rest of the evening and 
never says a word, points to his glass when he wants it filled, and 
never says a word. Puzzled us all, sir, all of us, none of us knew 
what to make of him at all; quiet enough, of course, and seems a 
nice gen’elmanly sort enough, but no company, not sociable like, 
you know, Mr. Bompas.” 

Mr. Bompas acquiesced in this view, and, premising that the 
secrets of his profession were of peculiar solemnity and weight, 
gave the history of his morning’s interview with the stranger. 

“There, now!” said Mr. Pinniffer, “look at that now! dear, 
dear; well, to be sure, he is a ter’ble cool ^en’elman, surely.” 

Mr. Bompas, having finished his punch, rose, shook his head 
solemnly and dubiously, and bidding farewell to the -landlord, went 
on his way to Mrs. Stanhope. Crossing the church-yard he passed 
Galbraith, who was smoking serenely, and who seemed quite ob- 
livious of his existence, in spite of the labored and stately salutation 
with which the ex-mayor deigned to favor a prospective townsman, 
a circumstance which, for the third time that day, caused the 
worthy man much inward reflection. He pursued his way, how- 
ever, in his usual imposing manner, and, having to deal with an 
ordinary and well-known client, was able to effect his business 
without any other mental shock. After a somewhat long consulta- 
tion, Mr, Bompas returned to the Bear, and finding Mr* Galbraith 
standing on the steps and still gazing down the street, was -able to 
inform him that his offer had been accepted, andthat only the 
necessary formalities had to be gone through. He was referred, to 


13 


AS AYOK PLOWS. 

his great astonishment, to the very firm in London who acted as 
Mrs. Stanhope's solicitors, and in a few days the Coombes, which 
had been empty long enough to be an interesting topic of Avonham 
tea-table talk, was occupied by the mysterious young man, who 
added yet more to the wonder of the town by bringing with him as 
his whole apparent household only one servant, that servant a man, 
and that man a stalwart negro with great filed teeth. 


CBAPTER 11. 

GUESTS AT THE PRIORY HOUSE. 

Mrs. Stanhope, of the Priory House, was admittedly the leader 
of fashion and society in Avonham. Her sway was undisputed, 
and her power apparently limitless. There Were two sections of 
society in Avonham, and there was a Pariah Section which was not 
in society at all. There was no neutral grouod; to one of the 
coteries every one was bound to belong. True,' the exigencies of life 
sometimes made it necessary that certain persons, by their position, 
were received b}^ both the society sections, but it was only in busi- 
ness hours that there was familiarity— it ceased when St. Hilde- 
garde’s struck four, and the professional business of Avonham was 
over. And there was also pne thing which terribly exercised the 
minds of Mrs. Stanhope and her immediate surroundings, and that 
was the position in society of the mayor. 

Indeed it was embarrassing. For the mayor, by virtue of his 
office, was of course the leader of all the public doings in Avoii- 
ham, and on him devolved the reception of any traveling great- 
nesses who might be visiting the neighborhood. He it was through 
whom was given that ^at moral support which Avonham has 
always extended to the^rown, and which the occupants of the 
throne have esteemed so highly, ever since the days of Queen Mary, 
who gave the town its charter. In the town hall was the bust of 
Sir Jabez Potts, who, on being intrusted with an address to George 
Hi., on the occasion of the great defeat of the French by Lord 
Howe in 1794, had been knighted by the king, 1o his great elation 
and to the pride and glory of Avonham, of which town he was a 
cloth-weaver. What had happened before might happen again, 
and each succeeding mayor of Avonham felt, as he buckled on the 
sword of office and donned the robes of State, that he too might 
kneel before his sovereign and after a few sweet and ennobling 
words' might rise and return to his townsfolk and family a full- 
blown doughty knight. 

On the other hand, although at present the state of mayoralty in 
Avonham was satisfactory so far as the position of the occupier of 
the civic throne was concerned, he being a solicitor and having suc- 
ceeded Mr. Bompas who was presentable in “ society,^' yet there 
were times when the gentility had been terribly puzzled as to how 
to receive a mayor who was a butcher, and stood at his door with 
his blue apron on, and left the slaughter-house for the town coun- 
cil, and exchanged the chopping- block for the chair. And then 


14 


AB AVOK PLOWS. 


again, although the mayor might be tolerated in his official robes 
and witn the handsome chain of office round his neck, yet, alas! 
there was one appalling fact to consider, which was that there was 
neither chain nor scarlet robe of office wherewith to deck the 
mayoress. Bo it came to pass that society which, as we all know, has 
its immense tasks forced upon, and not sought by it, had to suffer 
greatly in reconciling what was due to itself with what was due to 
the town. Such sacrifices were, however, made with that patience 
and courage which has generally charact<.‘rized all martyrdom; and 
the town and its gentility managed to work together amicably and 
for the interests of both. 

There was a second section of society, respectable in its way, 
larger than the Gentility section, and in reality the mainstay of 
Avonham^ from this class came more of the mayors than from the 
“ upper-crust,” as the youth of the second section termed it. It 
had no regular leader, the ladies being less amenable to the rule of 
one person than the followers of Mrs. Stanhope. It had one link 
and one link only that bound it socially with the first class, and that 
was the church and its afiairs. But it was as exclusive toward its 
inferiors as if it bad been the highest society in the land; stolid re- 
spectability was its great characteristic, its female members in- 
hausted much tea, its males had their club at which they consumed 
much tobacco, settled the affairs of the country-side with solemnity, 
and observed toward the Crown, the Church, and the Constitution, 
that reverence and loyalty for which the little town had long been 
noted, but into which reverence a ihost curious anomaly crept, 
which was that, though devotedly Protestant and unfeignedly 
Evangelical, it yet respected and admired, just as most other Prot- 
estant communities detested and abhorred, the memory of pastor- 
roasting Mary, from whom the place held, as we said before, the 
charter which made it a town. 

We mention the Pariah section as cautiously as possible and with 
this saving clause for it, that it consi^Hd in a great measure of 
youths, who, not having yet acquired any reverence for the respect- 
abilities, had not become attached to either party, but openly held 
aloof from both. These were generally reconciled to one of the 
sections by the face and form of some female member, whose in- 
fluence induced the youth, first to neglect his old companions and 
pursuits, next to hover about the outskirts of the section which held 
his charmer, and finally, Jhaving attained the object of his affections 
in the parish church, to settle down respectably and quietly in the 
station of Avonham life to which the young lady called him. There 
were sometimes instances of an inverse working of this rule, v hen 
a youthful member of one of the great parties, having been rejected 
by a lady, left his party in desperation and joined the ranks of the 
Pariahs, but such instances were rare, and the Pariahs, who were 
not at all bad Pariahs, but some of the liveliest youths of the place, 
were not fond of encouraging these deserters, but more often in- 
sisted, kindly and firmly, in being suffered to go their own way 
alone. Many of these wild blades were in the habit of making ex- 
cursions to Bristol and Bath for their pleasure, rejecting the tea- 
tables of the Avonham matrons and the long pipes of the fathers of 
the town, and some had even penetrated to the arcana of London 


AS AVOiq- FLOWS. 15 

itself, and spoke familiarly to awe-stricken audiences of the delights 
ot Cremorne and the chops of the Cheshire Cheese. 

But neither tradesmen nor Pariahs found their way inside the 
Priory House gates on the occasion of those special day-parties 
which Mrs. Stanhope occasionally gave on the smooth-shaven lawn 
of her beautiful grounds. And to-day the notabilities of Avonham 
were assembled there to welcome no smaller a luminary than the 
Right Rev. the Bishop of the Diocese. Seated in the most com- 
fortable of arm-chairs under the shadiest of trees, the worthy father 
was chatting smoothly and mellifluously with his fair hostess. On 
various parts of the. lawn, but for the most part under the sheltering 
trees, for the day vras hot, were the heads of the gentility party of 
both sexes. A little more decorum than even this decorous society 
was in the habit of expressing was assumed for the occasion and in 
deference to the presence among them; still there was no lack of 
life and even mild gayety in the picture, The bishop himself was 
a well-made portly man, who was not at all averse to the good 
things ot this world and certainly not an unnecessarily stern pre- 
cisian, and he looked with evidently pleased e 3 ^es at the .groups on 
the lawn before him. Standing besiae his lordship and also in con- 
versation with his hostess was Sir Headingly Cann, Bart., Member 
of Parliament for Avonham, which he represented entirely to the 
satisfaction of his constituents who had not troubled themselves or 
him with a contested election for eighteen years; a tall, fresh- colored, 
good-looking English gentleman with all the precise and perhaps 
pedantic courtesy of the good old school. 

A little distance from this group, an antique old beau, with a 
most wonderful assumption of youth, was chatting the smallest of 
Small talk with the three pretty daughters of Mr. Bompas and with 
their mamma, while, some paces from them, Mr. Bompas himself 
and Mr. Boldham, the banker, were discussing som6 weighty point 
of finance, which lifted them awhile from the surrounding gayety, 
and had involved them in a stream of figures so inexplicably dense 
that it made one hot to listen, for which reason, probably, they were 
entirely alone. 

Regarding the antique beau, whose name was Trumphy, and who 
was the delight of all the maiden ladies of Avonham, was a young 
fellow of about twenty six, who was leaning against the pillar of a 
veranda and casing glances of excessive scorn from a pair of very 
black eyes upon the unconscious little gentlemad, who was smirking 
and bowing and keeping up a string of extravagant compliments, 
and who was firmly persuaded of his abilit}^ to hold entranced all 
the pretty maidens at the parly, but who was at present especially 
devoting himself to the undoubted belle of them all, Miss Adelaide 
Bompas, whom we have already described as a very pretty, merry 
English lassie. There seemed to be no reason why Mr. Alfred 
Shelman should not have joined that or any other group that after- 
noon, but he chose rather to stand by the veranda and scowl at 
little Mr. Trumphy in a bellicose and unpleasant manner. For he 
had not a pleasing expression, this black-haired, black-whiskered 
black-eyed, dark-complexioned young man, and little white patches 
came and went round his thin lips and nostrils in a manner not good 
to look upon. He was aroused from his meditation by a voice ac- 


16 


AS ATOK FLOWS. 


costing him— a tey, drawling voice, a voice that seemed to express 
halt-sloth, half- contempt, and that appeared to have a most pleasing 
effect on the person who possessed it, and a most irritating ono upon 
him who heard. 

“ Going to sleep, Shelman, or planning an escape from this out- 
door oven, eh?” 

“What do you mean?” said SShelman with a start, “planning 
what? going where?” 

“ Oh, 1 see,” drawled the other, “ it’s the Bompas girls— Gad, 1 
haven’t seen ’em for an age. Been in London, you know, with 
uncle. I’ll go and chat with ’em. See you presently, peihaps,” and 
the young fellow strolled off and joined Mr. Trumphy and his audi- 
ence. 

He was not so morose as Shelman, but had an indolent, sleepy 
sort of face, which, in its pink and whiteness, its regularity and its 
want of expression, looked like the face of a doll. He was curled 
and ringed and scented, and on the best terms with himself, and was 
as conceited a piece of vanity as any in Marlshire. He affected 
cynicism and was really a Sybarite, professed contempt for field 
sports for want of courage to partake of them, and for sheer lack of 
energy to face any difficulty, expressed himself careless as to the 
events of life, taking care, however, to make his life at the same 
time as easy and comfortable as possible, having that pleasant disre- 
gard for the feelings of other people which generally accompanies 
those whose only thought is to please themselves. He was the 
nephew and heir of bir Headingly Cann, of whose sister, now dead, 
he was the only child. Such was Walter Elvers, with whom our 
history will have much to do. 

Mr. Trumphy was visibly disturbed by the advent of this gilded 
youth. For surely it is not the sweetest portion of the experiences 
of amorous age when youth comes in and beauty turns away toward 
it. He had had his cheery little old-world gossip, had paid his well- 
worn little compliments and earned his meed of praise, having really 
amused his good-natured hearers, and lo! his triumph was to depart 
at the first words of the good-lookingboy who was sauntering toward 
them. But he had reckoned without his host; the young ladies cer- 
tainly bowed, but immediately cast little meaning glances at one 
another; buxom Mrs. Bompas was the only one who took the out- 
stretched hand, but a cloud passed over her merry face as she did 
so, and Mr. Trumphy could see with evident delight that the visitor 
was not more welcome to the ladies than to him. He recovered his 
vivacity as quickly as he had lost it, assumed his old buckish de- 
meanor, and seeiiied to preen himself like an amiable old swan. 

“ Good-day, Mrs. Bompas, good -day, ladies; how d’ye do, Mr. 
Trumphy; bless me, yrhat an age it seems since 1 saw you. 1 was 
just telling Alf Shelman that — ” 

“1 thought he looked bored and cross about something,” said 
Miss Adelaide. 

“ Kow, Miss Adelaide, do let a fellow alone; isn’t she too bad, 
Mrs. Bompas?” Mrs. Bompas, who had given downright Adelaide 
a timorous v'arning glance, responded only by an uneasy smile. 
“You really are so very terrible, Miss Adelaide, that I’m quite 
afraid of you,*’ 


AS AYOISC FLOWS. 


17 

Complimentary, Mr. Rivers, 1 must say, to one of our sex. And 
pi ay, where have you been this age as you call it? London, 1 sup- 
pose?” 

“ Yes, Miss Adelaide, London it is, with uncle, you know, and 
helping him in that awful Parliamentary work, you know. I’m 
quite knocked up, now, real^, I am; I want some country air and 
quiet, 1 really do. 1 can't make out how it is fellows go on year 
after year at the pace they do in Lonilon. 1 expect you do, Mr. 
Trumphy, begad, I’ve heard you used to do it yourself, but 1 can’t 
stand it. It knocks me up, you know. 1 like the country. 1 like 
quiet and peace and all that sort of thing, so 1 persuaded uncle to 
come down here for a bit of a rest; and here we are.” 

” Yes, and now you are here,” said Mr, Trumphy, with a roguish 
look at the girls, ” now you are here, Mr. Rivers, for goodness’ sake 
do keep quiet,” 

Mr. Walter was rather discomfited at the hearty laugh with which 
this sally was received, and after a few more commonplaces with- 
drew and joined the young man to whom he had first spoken, who 
still remained leaning against the veranda, and wearing the same 
morose and repelling expression of face. He sneered as Rivers came 
up to him, and seemed delighted ^the shortness of his interview 
with the Bompas family. ^ 

” Well^” said he, you didn’t stay long with your friends, con- 
sidering how long you’ve been absent from them.” 

The other did not seem in the least degree annoyed, but laughed 
and replied : 

“ No, my dear fellow, 1 didn’t; why don’t you go and give them 
a visit, perhaps you’d have better luck than 1 seem'to get.” 

Adelaide snubbed you, 1 saw that.” 

“ I’m not the first or the only fellow she’s snubbed, 1 expect; how 
is it not on terms with the family?” 

Who saic| 1 wasn’t on terms with the family?” said Shelman, 
the white marks coming and going in his face, and with an uneasy 
twitching of the fingers. 

” My dear fellow, it was the first thing 1 heard when I name down 
to this hole; Perry and Watson were both at me as soon as 1 saw 
them yesterday — they were full of it.” 

” Perry and Watson are a couple of insolent puppies, and know 
nothing about it. Because the old man and 1 happened to disagree 
in the bank one day over a little matter of business, is that any rea- 
son that the family should be brought into question? People dis- 
agree about money matters every daj’^ of the week, all the year round. 
1 do wish to goodness people would either talk about what they un- 
derstand, and nothing else, or else not talk at all.” 

” M^e shouldn’t get much conversation out of Avonham under that 
arrangement, I’m afraid; and what we did wouldn’t be up to much; 
but what was the row with Father Bomp; how did you manage to 
ruftie that old Patriarch’s feathers?” 

” 1 didn’t ruifie his, confound him, but he put me preciously out, 
i can tell you. Y’’ou know the Coombes?” 

Old Currie’s place that was?-— yes.” 

Well, 1 always said that it old Ouriie left, I’d take that place. 


AS AYOH ^’JuOWS. 


18 

It would just have suited me, and 1 wanted to settle down in a house 
of my own, and— and — 

“ And ask Addie Bompas to come and look after It, eh?” 

“ 'Well, suppose 1 did, what of it. If 1 don’t very much mistake 
it won’t be through you if ever she did^’* 

“ But she won’t, my dear boy, she won't come for either of us, so 
it’s not a morsel of use for us to quarrel over her. Go on about the 
Coombes and the row with the old man.” 

There wasn’t any row 1 tell you ; it was this way ; — When Currie 
left, 1 went to Bompas and asked him whether the house would be 
to let. He said he didn’t know — Laura hadn’t made — Mis. Stan 
hope hadn’t made up her mind whether to let or not.” 

Hi vers glanced quietly at his companion as he substituted the 
hostess’ surname for her Christian one, and saw that a fierce fiush 
had swept rapidly over his face, as he made an effort to restrain his 
rage. 

” So 1 went in,” Shelman proceeded after a pause, ” to her and 
asked her, an^ she wouldn’t let it to me. Said she didn’t intend to 
let it just then. It was to be done up, it was to be altered, half-a- 
dozen things she told me about it, and at last 1 gave the thing up, 
for the present at least. ’ ’ 

“ 1 went past there yesterday, and it seemed occupied; there were 
blinds up and old Duggan was working away in the front garden. 
■Who’s got it, then?” 

“ iSfow you’re coming to what you call the row,” said Shelman, 
peevishly; ” about three weeks ago, when Mrs. Stanhope had just 
come back from London, a fellovv comes down here one day, from 
goodness knows where, and puts up at the Bear, calls on old Bora- 
pas the next day — 1 got that from Carter, who owes this fellow a 
grudge for some cheek he got froca him — sees old Bompas, who im- 
mediately comes up here, and, by Jove! in a few days’ time, this 
fellow moves into the Coombes, having bought it — bought it, sir 
— not rented it — furniture, land, house, and every mortal thing. 
That’s what riled me.” 

” Would you have Bought it?” 

“ Bought it, of course 1 would; she must have been mad to sell it 
for such a price. Fancy, only two thousand for the lot; the furni- 
ture was only four hundred, it’s true, and the buyer paid all the law 
expenses; but just imagine, sixteen hundred for thu Coombes 
Why, it’s absurdly cheap. I’d have givefi five hundred pounds more 
directly, and so I told old Bompas.” 

” What did he say? 1 thought Mrs. Stanhope took his advice in 
everything?” 

” So she does. I know she does, but in this instance the old fool 
swears he knew nothing at all about it. It was all done through 
Goldings in London; this fellow, it appears, is a client of theirs, and 
they told him of the house. All Bompas had to do, so he says, was 
to actually sell the thing and take the money. It seemed all cut and 
dried, he says, and when 1 told him he ought to have kept the first 
chance tor me, he declared that it didn’t matter, for when he men- 
tioned my name to Mrs. Stanhope, she shut him up at once.” 

‘‘ That’s a short expression for Bomp.” 

” Weil,, then^ she intimated— she intimated her disinclination to 


AS AVON FLOWS. 


19 


interfere with current negotiations/' said Shelman, with a short and 
strident laugh; “it’s about the same thing though, and so that 
ckance of getting a house is gone. 1 shall build one, 1 think, on 
the Western Road. Will you sell me that piece backing on to the 
river? 1 want a boat-house. ” 

“ I’m not going to sell any Avonham land, old fellow, thank you. 
Uncle’s sure to get a Railway Bill for the town, and you’ll see how 
land will be then. But who is the man who bought the place? 
What’s his name, and where does he come from?” 

“ His name’s Galbraith, but where he comes from goodness only 
knows. He’s a most extraordinary fellow, and no one in Avonham 
seems to know anything about him. He's got a confounded great 
hulking nigger for a servant, a fellow six feet high, with teeth like 
a saw.” 

“ Sort of Mesty, 1 suppose. WelB” 

“ 1 wrote to the man telling him I’d take the house ofi his hands 
and give him a couple ot hundred for his bargain, but he sent me 
a very short , note m reply, saying he was going to stop on, and so, 
as 1 told you before, that chance is gone— here’s the bishop and your 
uncle coming ; let’s go and see if old Bowlby ’s got any wine go- 
ing—”. 

“ Not now, old fellow, 1 want to see the bishop^ — always speak to 
bishops, it gives one a tone in the place.” 

Shelman turned moodily away and showed (worst kind of angry 
man) no relief from having told his grievance. Rivers looked after 
him with a smile. 

“ You’re a nice youfig man, Alfred,” said he softly to himself, “ a 
very nice young man — you’d make a nice son-in-law, and 1 envy the 
girl who marries you. So the widow saw through the game, did 
she, and wouldn’t stand it. 1 don’t wonder at it. Why when 1 
left, 1 thought she was going to change her name again to Shelman, 
There’s only a half-score years between yo.u, and there’s plenty of 
money on both sides. Well, there’s only a half-score years between 
another man and your charming widow, and there isn’t an open at- 
tachment to another girl between him and her; and there’s plenty 
of money on his side and will be more. 1 wonder how uncle would 
like it? H’m! I’ll see.” 

And here his uncle and the bishop coming up, he was soon in close 
converse with them, showing marked ability in his piloting of his 
uncle through devious ways of rhetoric and much skill in keeping 
him from falling into pit-holes of doctrine or politics, smiling and 
winning, deferential and polite, the bishop was pleased with 
him, his uncle was grateful to him, and he was self-satisfied to an 
inordinate degree. And all through that afternoon, as he went from 
group to group, there was none of the silent distrust that had been 
manifested by Mrs. Bompas and her daughters; indeed the matrons 
of the party seemed charmed with him, the maidens neither chiding 
nor coy in his presence. Whbre had he been so long? and how good 
It was ot him to work so hard lor his uncle, and what had the 
bishop said to him? and wasn’t he glad to get back to his Avonham 
friends again? — these were the remarks rained on him from all sides, 
and to all of them he gave light, chatty, pleasing answers. He found 


20 AS AVON VLOWS. 

himself at last close to his hostess, -who beckoned him to her side 
with a smile. 

Tall, dark, stately, well-preserved, with much natural disunity and 
not alitltle grace; arm well-shaped, hand and toot small; eyes black 
as sloes and bri^^ht and sparkling; somewhat low forehead, and a 
mouth whose chief characteristic was the evidence of quiet firmness 
which it gave— this was Mrs. Stanhope. 

. You have been at your best, 1 hear, Mr. Eivers,^" said she, 
motioning him to sit by her side. “ You aie getting quite a popu- 
lar character. Have you any design in it? Your uncle’s^ seat is 
surely sate enough. ’ ' 

'‘My uncle's seat is safe enough, no doubt, but, you know, a 
young fellow may have ambitions, and my uncle won’t live forever. 
It’s his wish that 1 make myself as agreeable as possible in Avon- 
ham; in case of anything happening to him, he would like me to 
succeed him rather than think of a stranger coming to sit for Avon- 
ham.” 

“ Indeed! is -your lordship the only resource of Avonham?” 

“ My lordship, as you are pleased to say, i^not the only resource 
of Avonham, but Avonham likes an Avonham man to represent it, 
and, since the Eeform Bill, has always had one — and, connected as 
1 am with my Uncle, knowing all his parliamentary business, and 
being entirely in his confidence, why, I have as good a chance as 
anyone else.” 

“ Well, when the time comes you shall have my interest, 1 prom- 
ise you. Thank goodness, they can’t deprive us of our interest, even 
though they won’t let us vote. ” 

” 1 shall always be happy when our interests are identical,” said 
- Eivers, with a laugh, and a bold glance at his hostess. 

She rose, and made him a pretty bow. ” Come and get me an ice, 
you forward boy, you learn the horridest things in London, I'm 
sure.” " • 

“ Is there nothing to be learned in Avonham, then?” said Walter, 
-laughing, as he gave her his arm; ” but 1 forgot to ask jmu some- 
thing. Are you losing your interest in the place, or are you giving 
us faggot votes?” 

” What do you mean?” 

“ Why, you’ve sold the Coombes, I hear.” 

“ Oh, yes, but my interest in Avonham isn’t diminished. I had 
a good deal of bother over it in Major Currie’s time, for one thing, 
and I had a fair offer for it without taking any trouble about it for 
another, and 1 had a third reason for selling it, which was most im- 
portant of all.” 

” And that was?” 

” I had a debt to pay.” 

” A debt to pay, why, good gra— ” 

” Not a money debt, you foolish man. When 1 want money 1 
will come to either the present or the future member for Avonham, 
when my bankers and agents have all failed me. It was another sort 
of debt altogether.” 

” And you paid it by selling the house; ah! I imderstand now. 
So you owed Shelman a turn, did you?” 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 


21 


“ Yes, and paid it too— you young men want keeping in order 
. sometimes. So he told you of it, did he?’’ 

“ Only this afternoon. I saw him looking very amiable about 
something, and got the story from him after a little. He seems very 
cross over it.” 

“1 meant him to be. 1 must keep my subjects in order, you 
know.” 

“ I thought Shelmah was your slave?” 

“ Maybe— but he escaped, and this house was the only dog 1 
could send to bite him— so I sent it.” 

“ But did he escape? If he did it was to that horrid place that 
those misguided fellows in America get to — the Dismal Swamp, for 
he can find no shelter elsewhere, and he's as glum as possible. I’ve 
been away, you know, and didn’t hear of it. . Well, it doesn’t break 
my heart, for Shelman and 1 were never quite David and Jonathan, 
although we weie at Eton together.” 

“ Besides which— 1 think I’ve heard so — wasn’t there a little 
rivalry between you once?” 

“ Of course there was. I’m jealous of all your slaves; every one in 
Marlshire is. ” 

“ 1 don’t mean that, you incorrigible fellow. I’m talking about 
that pretty daughter of Mi. Bompas. She’s here to-day; 1 asked 
^them all lo meet the bishop. Bompas is churchwarden, you know.” 

“ Which of them? Egad, they ’re all pretty. Ko, there was never 
anything in that. 1 never said anything but mere civility to Miss 
Bompas, and, by Jove! 1 never even got that from her, for she’s as 
sharp as a needle, and drops down upon me awfully Shelman was 
hit, and still is, 1 believe, but 1 don’t know what to think of it, I’m 
sure. Indeed, I don’t know. I’ve been away, don’t you know. 
Let me give you this ice. ” 

Mrs. Stanhope could not hope that one of her guests, however 
charming, could occupy her any longer. She had to fulfill all those 
thousand little duties of a hostess, all of which she did to perfection. 
When the episcopal chariot came for- the bishop, he took leave of her 
in the most fervent and marked manner. The member, the banker, 
the family solicitor, the magnates of East Marlshire, and the great 
ones of the West, all said their adieus, and praised their hostess ; 
her graceful winning ways, her hospitality and aflability were all 
lauded to the skies. And when the last guest had departed, and 
Mrs. Stanhope had had her quiet dinner, cooked by the skillful hand 
of her chef, and served by servants devoted to her, who only asked 
to live and die in her service, she leaned back in her arm-chair, 
and fell to thinking over the events of the day. 

Now, among the events of the day had been a great deal of openly 
expressed admiration, and from our young friend Mr. Rivers a few 
not ill-chosen compliments, and these led her to think of other 
things, and of the. many hints about altering^ her condition and 
changing her name, and 'this led her to think of marriage. 

^ Mr. Stanhope was a wealthy man who, eight years ago, had mar- 
ried her and brought her to his house at Avonham, whither he had 
retired, after realizing a handsome fortune by trade as a London 
merchant. Their married life had been perfectly uneventful, and 
had lasted only four years, when Mr. Stanhope had died, blessing 


22 


AS Aro:^ I'LOws. 

her \^ith his latest breath es a kind and loving wife, and endowing 
her with almost all his wealth. And yet, when Mrs. Stanhope, after 
thinking^ot her admirers, and their compliments, began to turn her 
thoughts to love and to maniage, the family skeleton came out of 
its secret cupboard, and held close communion with her for an hour 
— and a very grim and ugly skeleton it was. 


CHAPTER 111. 

THE STKANGER GIVES MR. ALFRED SHELMAN MORE CAHSE TO 

LOVFT HIM. 

Now that the first overwhelming curiosity as to the new occupant 
of the Coombes had somewhat subsided, on account of the ap 
parent hopelessness of discovering anything about him, public at- 
tention directed itself with great diligence to studying his domes- 
tic doings. The only medium through which the good gossips could 
find out anything about the interior of the house was a stalwart char- 
woman, named Hackett, who was an institution in Avonham, and 
who, it was speedily found out, went to the Coombes lor two 
hours in the morning, to ply the art which she professed. Even 
from her, the good ladies could make out very little. The house, 
she said, was pretty much the same as in Major Currie’s time; the 
new tenant had purchased no new furniture; some shelves had been 
jmt up, and there was a “ sight o’ books ” in the front parlor, and 
some new and incomprehensible utensils had been added to the 
kitchen. The gentleman was a real gentleman; her money was 
always laiid reg’lar on the mantel piece for her every morning, and she 
got as much for her two hours as ever she’d got for a day any- 
where else; sometimes it didn’t take her two hours, and then she just 
finished her work and went; the beer-cellar wasn’t locked, she some- 
times pointedly remarked (in houses where it was locked), and the 
tap was to be turned tor the turning, and no questions asked. The 
gentleman seemed an early riser, and in general walked about in the 
garden after breakfast a-smoking, and he didn’t smoke no Avonham 
cigars neither, she knew the smell on ’em better. She never had no 
cooking to do*— the colored gentleman done all that. Well, some 
people might call him a nigger, if they liked; but since she’d known 
him she didn’t know but what she’d a-changed her mind a bit about 
it like; anyways, he was always polite and civil enough to her, and 
handsome is as handsome does, and what was beauty but skin-deep 
after all, was what she wanted to know. All she knew was that it 
was the best job o’ charing as she’d had ever since in this town 
she’d a-bin, and how long it lasted she didn’t care. Thus spoke 
Mrs. Hacikett, a staiwart charwoman, earning m.any a glass of pleas- 
ing and coiiiforting strong waters from her narration. 

The tradesmen of Avonham spoke of the new-comer with respect 
as a gentleman who paid for everything as he had it; ran no bills, 
all cash down on the nail, they wished everybody were like him that 
way. He seemed to live simply; his servant was rather exacting 
toward Mr. Killett (the ex-butcher mayor) in the matter of special 
cuts and small dainties, but— there, foreigners, particularly them of 


AS AVOK FLOIVS. 


23 


a different color, were expected to be a bit curious in tbeir tastes 
and fancies, and the man was a civil, well-spoken man enough— the 
chief wonder in the minds of the Avonham worthies being that 
neither his speech nor his manner in the slightest degree resembled 
that of the wandering companies of Christy Minstrels who had oc- 
casionally visited the town, and who were popularly supposed to be 
faithful delineators of the manners of the African race. 

From the remainder of the town Mr. Galbraith kept carefully 
aloof as it seemed. Perhaps the feeling was slightly too strong on 
that point, but it is certain that he sought no introduction to any of 
the townsfolk, and had a calm but startling manner of answering any 
questions, which we have seen brought into play with Mr. Bompas’s 
unfortunate pupil, and which effectually checked any approach to 
familiarity. By the time he had settled down in his house he had 
the usual call from the vicar, whom he had received politely, whom 
he had told, in the five minutes that the interview lasted, nothing of 
himself, and whom he had dismissed — politely, it is true, but still 
dismissed — much puzzled by the cold and impassive, demeanor of a 
man, young and apparently in full health and strength. So .that 
although Galbraith did nothing very strange or eccentric, nothing 
more strange, that is, than to evince a desire to be^ left entirely to 
himself, yet had he been in the habit of launching out into the 
wildest extravagances, had he at once joined the very outermost 
circle of the Pariah section, he would not have excited a tithe of the 
gossip and curiosity which followed his settlement in the town, and 
which lasted for the first month of his residence. 

Then the subject began to drop a little; interest strained to its 
uttermost must relax at l^st, and it was so in this case. The town 
had to prep’are for its great fair, held at the end of July, and lasting 
three days; two mill-owners had a dispute about water-rights, in 
which dispute every male inhabitant (always excepting ‘ Galbraith) 
took one side or the other; children were born in the families of two 
or three prominent citizens; Mr. Sander, the young grocer, married 
Miss Haiton, the veterinary surgeon’s daughter, who had thrown 
over Mr. ^Speckley, the optician, whom every one had thought was 
to have been the happy man; and old Mr. Rax, the senior member 
of the town council, died, and was honored with a public funeral; 
in a Word, 'lime, which effaces the deeds of the evil and the good 
alike in the great world wherein we all toil and moil, gradually 
w^ore away the impression which the stranger had created on his 
arrival in the quiet little town. 

With Mr. Bompas alone had Galbraith kept up anything like in- 
tercourse. It had arisen very naturally out of the first arrangements 
for the transfer of the house; for in this land of property, and 
among this nation of shopkeepers, the sale and purchase of houses 
are not conducted in dumb-crambo; naturally enough, also, they ex- 
changed greetings whenever they happened to meet. Sometimes 
Mrs. Bompas leaned on the arm of her Abel, in which case the hat of 
the young man was raised with more formality; it had happened that 
Mr. Bompas had one of the 5^oung ladies with him, in which case 
also we know it is necessary to bow. Now, to acknowledge the salu- 
tation of a young gentleman, when leaning on papa’s arm, is un- 
deniably correct, and Prudery herself must countenance it; also 


24 


AS ATOK PLOWS. 


when mamma teoeives the compliment, miss nmst also admit it, and 
having gone thus tar it would he hard hearted to refuse to see the 
gentleman’s bow when two or three sisters are together, and are 
saluted collectively, and so on and so on, till you find that you will 
naturally incline your head to a respectful hat lif ting male, even 
•when walking down the street of a country -town alone. Of course 
the Misses Bompas bowed to other gentlemen, but they were the 
' only young ladies in the place who ever received any notice from 
Mr. Oalbraith. 

From time immemorial Avonham had its special trade in which 
it surpassed towns twenty times its size, and for which indeed it 
stood first in all the land. It had the largest market for cheese in 
England. At its great fairJn October were “ pitched,” that is, 
brought into the town and exposed for sale, mountains of cheese of 
all sizes and kinds, but principally of those made in the district 
twenty miles round, in the two greatest grazing and cheese-making 
counties we have. On the second Friday of every mouth the ordi- 
nary, cheese market was held, that of October being the largest; but 
in addition to all these cheese pitchings it had an unnual fair lasting 
three days, a fair which brought in all the, country-side for miles 
around, which filled the town with horned cattle, rosy-cheeked farm 
hands, and shows and stalls of all descriptions. To receive the 
visitors took the town a week of preparation, to get rid of their 
traces, a week of cleaning up; it was the one great event which 
really broke the routine life of Avonham; open house was the order 
of the day, and every outlying native made shift by hook or by 
crook to get back to the holne of his youth on at least one of the 
three days. 

On the first of these three days was held the annual ‘‘ Mop ” or 
hiring fair. Scarcely a farm servant for miles round but was en- 
gaged in this way. Standing in the market-place, and lining the 
main street, were two detachments of them, men in one, women in 
the other, all waiting to be engaged for a year from ” Mop ” day. 
Farmers in want of carters, plowmen, odd men, or shepherds; 
their w'ives seeking dairy maids, kitchen-helps, and ” such like,” 
went amongst these two parlies, seeking persons looking likely to 
suit them, making their bargain, and binding it with earnest money, 
the passing of which makes the contract good for a year. A speci- 
men of this kind of hiiing would be about as follows: 

Farmer (speaking to a^man who, from having a piece of twisted 
whipcord in his hat, is Known to be a carter). “ How many bosses 
thee" bin a used to mind?” 

CAirTBR. ” ’Bout a ten, zur.” 

Farmer. ” Where hast a bin a livin’?” 

Carter. ” Up to Master Dingle’s, o’ Lie Dillimer.” 

Farmer. ” Be main heavy land, there- away, eh?” 

Carter. ” Ees, zur— a be ter’ble heavy to be sure — ’twere 
shockin’ wark a cleaning o’ en. 1 be a aimin’ for to get more downs 
way like.” 

Farmer. ” Thee can’st gi’ a boss a ball now, can’st?” 

Carter. “ Ay, sure, zur, an’ niver want nur a doctor around my 
steable nuther. ” 

Farmer, Hqw much dost ’ee ask? now?” 


AS AVOIjJ- PLOWS. 25 

Cabter. “ Vourteen zhillin’, zur, an’ 1 don’t aim to goo under 
it.” 

Farmer. ” IV hoy, ttieest askin’ a zhillin’ moor nor any man i’th 
mop as I’ve a-spoak too yit.” 

Carter. ” Pack o’ macky moons! Spooasin’ 1 be~l count- 
mysel’ a jonik at it, zur— not one o’ they silly sort as look at a hoss 
an’ think as he’m dressed Yo’ll find I’ll arn all o’ that, zur, an’ 
zave it thee aaver an’ aaver in oats an’ bron.” 

Farmer. “ Well, I’ve a heerd on thee, ah’t a zhillin’ ’ont part 
us — there’s thee arnest. Come aaver a Monday and make a start. 
Long-bottom Varm, ’yond Cummeitord Giate.” 

Carter. ” All right, master! Thank’ee kindly, zur. I’ll be 
thur, zur, never vear,” 

And the pair separate, well pleased, the farmer going to look 
after his wife who is chaffering over a pound a year with a red-armed 
stalwart dairy-maid, their business being conducted very much after 
the same model. 

The second day was devoted to cattle, horses, sheep, and pigs, 
which swarmed in the streets. The unfortunate bulls were tied to 
stout posts in the upper market place, and a1 four o’clock were re- 
leased to go plunging blindly down the street, scaring the women to 
death almost and clearing everything before them in their career. 
The sheep were sold by auction in pens outside the Bear, which was 
thronged with visitors from morn to night; horses were found at the 
entrance to South Street, and pigs everywhere. 

It was of little use for the purveyors of amusement to open their 
shows till the third and last day, but then they reaped a silvern 
harvest. Then the spotted boy, the pig-faced lady and the knock- 
kneed giant drew crowds to see them. Then was the gingerbread 
nut hot i’ the mouth, and the foaming sherbeit hissed in the glass; 
then were the gathers torn out of mother's dress as eager little ones 
dragged her to gayly painted toy stalls where the agile monkey 
climbed the yellow stick, and pop-guns and side-drums, whistles 
and humming tops made a display irresistible to boyhood ; there 
on all sides were the ” fairin’ ” ribbons so dear to the female heart, 
cheap jewelry, peep-shows. Punch and Judy, the wonderful collec- 
tion of wild and ” fabulous ’’ animals, the five-legged horse^and the 
two-headed boar. The little place was in a whirl of excitement for 
once, and the very nature of the townsfolk was changed. Without 
I entirely throwing off the bucolic stolidity so welded to the character 
, of the AVessex county folk, they ran riot with heavy humor; the good 
. old jokes that had done duty for years were all cracked again, and, 
having received their usual attendant guffaws, were carefully laid 
aside to be produced again next fair— to be artfully led up to in con- 
versation, or lugged in neck and crop at any and every opportunity. 
In many a house, the parlors, the kitchen, the sacred drawing-room 
or best parlor, only opened on rare occasions, were filled with noisy, 
good-humored friends, bouncing lasses from country farm-houses, 
boisterous bachelors making rough love and meeting no reproof, all 
hoydenish or boyish misdemeanors being pardoned on account of 
Pair Day, which, to say truth, was the starling point of many a 
rustic wooing. 

Of course, when every one was entertaining company, the house 


36 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


of Mr. Bompas, one of the most hospitable of men as well as a 
county magnate, was not closed. Indeed, the veiy best of country- 
side society, the cream of the landed interest, the golden youth of 
agriculture, were cordially receiv'ed by the genial, albeit pompous, 
host- Mr. Bompas did not sell in the market-place; fair- tide was 
a holiday with him, a season of feasting and meeting country-side 
cronies, of hearing reports ot farms and land, crops and rents, pros- 
pects and profits, h or his wife it was a time lo air the newest dress, 
to produce the oldest wine, to cut the richest cak(5, and to live again 
the days of her youth in hearty communion with a score of matrons, 
her school-mates and girl-mates of yore; whilst for the Misses 
Bompas it was the occasion of receiving the undisguised admiration 
and attention ot half the youth of the shire, some of whom hoped, 
some of whom despaired, but all of whom were avowed admirers of 
the three pretty sisters ot Avonham. Here they were now ihe nenter 
of a group of young men, a group occasionally lessened by the de- 
parture of one swain, to be speedily increased by the coming of 
another. 

Adelaide Bompas and her sisters were tall and fair, with a great 
family likeness in all. If there were any difference in their beauty 
it was that the twenty-four years of Adelaide had given a little more 
ripeness to her form than the twenty-two years ot Louisa, 
or the twenty of Lucy. Why they had not married before 
was sometimes a matter of wonder, sometimes a matter for 
inquisitiveness, and sometimes a matter for spiteful rejoicing. 
But young Grains, the brewer, bad wooed Adelaide in vain ; the 
Rev. Adolphus Gran had fruitlessly sought the hand of Miss Louisa, 
and Lucy had laughed so af the sight of Lieutenant Moody as, 
arrayed in a tight shell jacket, he kneeled at her feet to propose, 
that the youthful warrior had risen to his feet in dudgeon with all 
his honeyed words unsaid. And rumor spoke of others also. 

Rumor said that Mr. Walter Rivers had been also sent away by 
one of the trio, to which statement was sometimes added the fact 
that the young gentleman had been astounded by getting that curi- 
ous social entomological specimen a “ flea in his ear ” from the lady 
whom he supposed he was honoring by those attentions so welcome 
to many, but so unrequited where he most wished them favoiably 
received. It was a mooted point as to how far Mr. Shelman had 
gnne, or was prepared to go; however, it was universally agreed by 
the Avonham matrons, that however much people may have thought 
he was smitten with Mrs. Stanhope (ahd the very idealof him marrying 
a woman ten years older than he was), the widow had had, whether 
shekndw it or not, or whether she cared or didn’t, at any rate, a 
temporary rival in Miss Adelaide. Whatever the young women 
wanted in the shape of husbands, the matrons went on to observe, 
was more than they knew; that they were good-looking girls with 
good figures nobody ever went to deny ; but for being handsome — 
well, that was a matter ot opinion and taste — they were well off no 
doubt (at least the father was), and rode their horses, and had been 
to school at London — but after all their father was in business just 
as the fathers of their own darlings were, and they only hoped their 
own girls would never look above their stations, for it was well 
known that pride often had a fall, and it was also well known that 


AS ATOK FLOWS. 


27 


crows coulcln-t expect to live in eagles’ nests, and a great deal more 
proverbial wisdom to the same effect was always quoted whenever 
the question .of the Misses Bompas and their marriages cropped up 
at tea. They, however, went their way very much as they chose, 
and seemed — and probably were— -entirely careless as to the opinions 
of the self-appointed arbiters of courtship and marriage. When- 
ever it happened, as it sometimes did, that the feminine spite of 
some good lady could no longer be restrained, but broke out, in 
sugar-coated innuendoes made to one of the young ladies herself, the 
attacked one would take up the cudgels on behalf of herself and 
sisters so very efficaciously that more than one manama had retired 
from the contest with the tables so completely turned upon her and 
in such a routed and demoralized condition that she herself could 
not completely realize the extent of her overthrow till an angry son, 
or a tearful daughter, informed her that the sisters had carried the 
war into the enemy’s country by repeating the facts of the encounter 
to a number of the youth of both sexes and making at least a nine 
days’ laughing stock of the whole of the aggrieved and innocent 
family. 

The group in Mr. Bompas ’s handsome drawing-room was one of 
the merriest in Avonham that day; from the host downward, all 
were full of fair-time fun and fair-time jollity. Servants came and 
went with refreshnients solid and liquid, the -windows toward the 
garden were open, and the noise of the fair in the main street was 
subdued and deadened by the intervening trees. Conversation was 
therefore easy, and it went on in one continued flow. At the further 
end of the room hear the window looking on to South Street were 
the three sisters and their attendant suite on the hearthrug was Mr. 
Bompas with a knot of his particular Crcmies, and at the garden end 
of the room was Mrs. Bompas with her own especial lady friends. ' 
A fresh-colored young farmer was endeavoring to interest the girls 
in a favorite mare, the new curate was waiting to put in a clerical 
joke warranted of the mildest and, purest Oxford brand, and Mr. 
Adolphus Carter, who was, as every apprentice or articled pupil 
should be, violently in love with his master’s daughters (in this case 
he never could make up his mind which), was gazing fondly and 
earnestly at them all, when Adelaide suddenly exclaimed: 

“Luce! Loo! whose horse is that? ^hat a beauty! Oh, he’s 
for sal^, 1 see!” 

” Yes— he’s good-looking enough— but you should see this mare 
1 was telling you about,” said the young farmer. “ 1 assure you. 
Miss Lucy — ” 

‘‘ Mr. Shelman seems to be going to buy him,” said Louisa. 
“ Papa, is that one of Dingle’s men, with this horse here?” 

Mr. Bompas adjusted his glasses and approached the window. 

“ My dear, 1 am unable to identify the individual as being con- 
nected with Mr. Dingle.” 

” It’s a splendid horse, anyhow; Shelman’s most decidedly smit- 
ten,” said one of the young men; ” ah, 1 see Dobby’s going to sell 
him by auction; there’s the duke’s whip looking at him now; he’ll 
fetch some money. 

” So he ought,” said Lucy, an enthusiast in horseflesh, as every 
Amazon is, “1 wish papa would go and buy him,” 


28 


A.S ATOK PLOWS. 


Not a bit ot use, Luce,’' said Louisa, we should only quarrel 
om’ him. 1 wonder what he’ll fetch." 

“ I’ll go down and see and bring you word again," said the young 
farmer' and he was soon standing in the ring which surrounded the 
horse, in front of Mr. Lobby’s rostrum, a kind of wheeled reading 
desk which was drawn by a pony from point to point. 

The bidding started briskly, and very soon reached a hundred 
guineas, for the duke’s whip made a sudden and bold bid when 
sixty was reached and seemed to fancy that the horse was his. Mr. 
Shelman, however, and a little wiry local steeplechase jockey, still 
opposed, and at a hundred and thirty he turned aside with a sigh — 
he had really exceeded his limit, but he said to his neighbor, "I 
know the duke ’ud a liked him, and it’s a shame to lose him, on’y 
1 got my orders very particular about price this early lime. ’ ’ 

The little jockey was still manfully bidding against Mr. Shelman, 
to the latter’s visible armoyance, so he crossed the ring ancj^went to 
him. 

" Why the devil can’t you let me have the horse. Hart? You 
don’t want him." 

" 1 must have him, sir," said the man, touching his hat respect- 
fully, but speaking firmly.’ 

" Nonsense, you mean you vrant a tenner for yourself. Well, you 
can have that to leave him alone. " 

" Any advance on one hundred and forty guineas," said the auc- 
tioneer, raising his hammer, for he noticed the conversation, and 
guessed its import. 

“ A hundred and fifty," said Shelman. " Now, then, let the thing 
alone and you can have ten for yourself." 

" Can’t do it, sir! A hundred and sixtyl"- 

“ Seventy," said Shelman, viciously. 

" Eighty, " said the jockey , quietly. 

" Hang you, take the brute,’' said Sbelman<scowling at the man, 
the horse, the auctioneer, the crowd, and the >surroundings gener- 
ally; and elbowing his way out ot the ring he walked slowly down 
the street. 

He paused at Mr. Bompas’ open door, and twisted his glove, 
hesitatingly. 

" I haven’t called, and 1 suppose 1 must: it’s best to keep in whh 
these people. I’m blessed if 1 know what to do about the girls, 
though. I’ve a good mind to make up to Addie again. Hang that 
brute," and muttering to himself he entered and walked upstairs. 

He was cordially welcomed, of course, for he was one ot the first 
young men in the county, a partner in the bank, a landed proprie- 
tor, and a rising young man; but there was observable in his greet- 
ings a sense of showing no desire of gaining affection, but rather of 
exacting respect, and those who saluted him and shook his hand did 
so respectfully, yet not heartily, and spoke to him as to a power 
rather than to a friend. 

He made his way to Mrs. Bompas, and was greeting the ladies in 
her circle, when the 3 mung farmer, who had volunteered to bring 
back the news of the sale, returned. He saw Shelman in the rdom 
and so told his tale in a low tone of voice, but the news evoked an 
exclamation ot surprise from two or three of the group. 


AS Ayo]sr FLOWS. 29 

Shelraan turned and advanced toward them, saluted the young 
ladies, and shook hands with someot the young men, amongst them 
the young farmer, the son dt one of his largest tenants. 

“ 1 thought you meant having that chestnut just now, sir,’^ said 
the latter. 

“Ah,” said Shelman, carelessly, “you were there, Watson, of 
course, 1 saw you — yes— but he went too high. 1 don’t mind wnat 
fair prices 1 pay, but 1 don’t give fancy ones. 1 suppose Hart will 
send him abroad; 1 hear he is picking up some horses for Germany.” 

“ Oh, no! 1 asked him,” said Watson; “ he bought it for a gen- 
tleman in Avonham here. ” 

“ Who on earth is that?” said Shelraan, flushing up with sudden 
anger, and then turning pale; “ Mr. Rivers?” 

“No, sir, the gentleman that’s bought Mrs. Stanhope’s house 
over here.” 

“You look pale, Mr. Shelman,” said Mrs. Bompas, who had 
crossed the room to speak to one of her daughters, “ won’t you take 
a glass of wine. Abel, give Mr. Shelman a glass of wine; why, 
you’re as white as a sheet, sir; it’s the weather, 1 suppose.” 

He took the wine and drank, in the country-side fashion, to his 
hostess and her daughters, but looking at Adelaide, saw that she 
was intently regarding him, as if reading what was passing in his 
mind. He recovered himself with an effort and was soon engaged 
in county small-talk with the other guests. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A DISCUSSION ON AN IMPORTANT SUBJECT. 

Sib Headingly Cann and his nephew sat at breakfast one sum- 
mer morning, about a week after the fair. The young day was so 
bright and the interior of the room so hot that Sir Headingly, who 
was a late riser, had given ordeis that the table should be laid under 
the veranda, and that the meal should be taken in the open air. 
They were sitting there in lounging chairs befoi-e a low table cov- 
ered with materials for a repast altogether rather more tropical in 
its nature than our ordinary English feasts. We have so few oppor- 
tunities for eating out-of-doors, and such very conservative notions 
of the viands which we consider proper to a breakfast-table, that a 
meal such as Sir Headingly and Walter Rivers were now engaged 
in discussing, might be considered somewhat of a novelty in 
domestic life. Fruit formed a considerable item ; the coffee-pot was 
certainly present, but seemed neglected for a long flask of Hock 
flanked by a silver pail of glittering ice; the table was bright with 
flowers, arid the veranda gay with clustering roses; the stately pea- 
cocks strutting on the smooth lawn gave a lordly air to the scene, and 
Sir Pleadingly surveyed it with an air of feeling both eye and mind 
pleasantly relieved from the turmoil of London and the labors of 
the session. For though Westminster legislators were still engaged 
in piloting the good ship Britannia into shallow water and on to 
mud-banks, in order, as it seemed, to have the gratification of bring- 
ing her noisily into port afterward, yet this member of the crew 
was not at present on board, and the good ship Britannia had to sail 


30 


AS ATOK FLOWS. 


on without him, a leat which she managed very well indeed and 
without appearing to be at all aftected bjr his absence, so stupend- 
ous are the resources of our great country. 

Here he sat then, toying with some strawberries, and opposite him 
his nephew, whom this sort of luxurious ease just suited. Break- 
fast was nearly over and hitherto had been eaten in silence, for Sir 
Meadingly seemed buried in thought, and Rivers had lazily waited 
for the outcome of his meditations: his uncle was, he knew, a slow 
thinker, and that he did not consult him at once with a view of be- 
ing extricated from a mental difficulty showed him, as his experi- 
ence bore him out, that the subject of the baronet’s cogitations was 
himself, and this being so he waited with apparent unconcern, but in 
reality with some little anxiety, for the result. 

“ Waiter,” said Sir Headingly, rousing himself at last, 1 want 
to have some conversation with' you this morning on an important 
subject — ” 

“ What is that, sir?” said Walter. 

The old man paused again — the ice was broken, it is true, but he 
was about to enter upon his topic with a statement which lew men 
like to make for the first time. 

“ W ell, 'Walter,” said he after a little, ” you see, the fact is, I feel 
sometimes, my boy, that I’m — I’m not getting any younger than 1 
was.” 

“ No doubt, sir,” said his nephew, “ no doubt; but you are very 
well, are you not? “You don’t feel ill, do you? and you have been 
remarkably hearty down here this last month; nothing amiss, sir, 1 
hope?” 

‘‘No, my boy, no, thank’ee; 1 feel as well and hearty as 1 have 
for ten years past, but that doesn’t alter the fact of my age, does it? 
1 was just thinking, sitting here now, that I shall be sixty-nine 
next Sunday, and that’s getting on, you know.” 

“ Why, sir, it’s not a great age tor a man like you who has passed 
most of his life in the country.” 

” And led a pretty easy life too, you would say. No, Walter, it’s 
no -great age, that’s true, but it’s an age, my lad, at which, if a man 
wants to see another generation springing up round him, he must 
begin to think about making arrangements for them, eh, Walter?” 

Walter opened his eyes, and slightly changed color. ‘'You’re 
surely not thinking of — ” 

“ Of marriage? — yes, my boy, 1 am.” 

” 1—1 give you joy, uncle, I’m sure!” said Walter, suddenly hold- 
ing out his hand, but looking anything but joyful; “who is the 
lady, uncle, may 1 inquire?” 

” No, no, my boy,” said^Sir Headingly, laughing; “ I’m not go- 
ing to take my first wife at my age; if 1 were thinking about mar- 
riage, and 1 was, as 1 tell you, it was for you 1 was planning — ” 

“ Oh,” said Walter, much relieved; and after a few seconds he 
added, ” Have you found a wife for me then, sir?” 

“No, no, my boy,” said the baronet, looking fondly at him, for 
he loved the child of his dead sister, “ No, no, young men should 
chobse for themselves, AV alter, and if 1 speak to you now upon the 
subject at all, it is only because 1 don’t see any signs of your hav- 
ing looked out j^et. You’re twenty-six, Walter, aren’t you?” 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


31 


Yes, sir, last birthday/’ 

“ Well, twenty-six is a good age to marry— a good, sensible age; 
boyish foolishness is over, or ought to be, and you’re a man then, 
able to judge of a woman — that is so far as any man ever judge 
of a womans— by that time. Walter, my boy, 1 should very much 
like to see you engaged to some nice lady-like girl of good family; 
it would carry out one of the dearest wishes of my life; and if 1 saw 
you well married, my boy, and could take one of your little ones on 
to my knee before I went, there would be nothing wanting to me 
then— I should be ready to go,- my boy, then, quite ready,” and the 
good old fellow’s eyes twinkled and he used his handkerchief to 
wipe them, quite unfeignedly. 

The faults of W alter Rivers were rather those arising from an in- 
dolent and weak nature, and want of heart could scarcely be ^lleged 
against him. He really had for his uncle a great affection, and 
would have been heartily sorry to hear of any misfortune happening 
to him. Had he died he would have mourned him — his death would 
make very little real difference to him, for to do the young man some 
justice he was no spendthrift, and his uncle’s handsome allowance, 
together with the comfortable property which he had inherited from' 
his mother, gave him an income so much more than sufficient tor 
his wants that he never spent more than the half of it; he was al- 
ready manager of all his uncle’s affairs and as much master in his 
houses as the old man himself. And he was really grateful to him 
for his kindness, was old enough to remember how his dying mother 
had confided her orphan boy to the charge of her brother, and was 
just enough to acknowledge the faithful and generous manner in 
which the trust had been carried out, so that it was not without a 
share of the old man’s temporary emotion that he answered: 

“ My dear uncle, you’ve always been most kind; I’m sure you 
know I’d do anything to please you; and if my marriage will make 
you happy, w’^hy so be it —I’ll be a Benedick to-morrow. Only ” — 
he added, laughing, throwing himself back in his chair — “ you must 
pick the lady, uncle, for really I’m fancy free myself.” 

Sir Headingly laughed in his turn, and then said, “ Do you know, 
my dear Walter, that 1 once fancied you were sweet upon— that’s 
your young men’s expression, isn’t it? — sweet upon one of those 
pretty girls of old Bompas, eh, sir?” 

No change of color in the face of Mr. Walter Rivers, as he an- 
swers : 

” My dear sir, every one admires them, of course — why, they’re 
the prettiest girls in the county— but one doesn’t marry a giil because 
she’s pretty, that is — well, she must have some position, you know, 
sir — and really the father — ” ^ 

‘‘The father is a very worthy old fellow, as I have known for 
many years; but I’m glad it isn’t the fact that you favor the young 
ladies — most charming and well-bred young ladies, loo, begad! — in 
any very particular way. 1 was at one time rather afraid of it, and 
1 had always made up my mind — 1 don’t mind telling you so now, 
Walter — to use my influence with you against such a match — mildly 
of course I mean, for 1 won’t force you, my boy, either to a mar- 
riage or against a marriage; but that really was my fear; I’m glad 
to find it was ill-founded.” 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


32 

“ Quite so, my dear uncle, 1 assure you/' said Walter, “ there 
was. never the slightest fear of things going to any length there, and 
there really isn’t anybodj^ else, 1 assure you. sir— at least not any one 
to whom I’ve ever laid any matrimonial siege.” 

'‘Well, my boy, you shall choose for yourself .when you do 
marry, but 1 shall be glad to see you in the way of it, and there’s 
one thing 1 do want to say — ” 

AValter waited with unmoved countenance ; but the old man paused. 
He played idly with a rose-bud blown on to his knee by the light 
breeze, and plucked it from its slender stem before resuming — 

“ There is a lady— a lady for whom 1 have the highest regard ” — 
and he paused again. 

'* Come, iincle,” said the young man with a toneot heartiness, 
but f?jth a glance very observant of the old man, “ let me know the 
lady; 1 assure you I’m heart-whole as yet, and I promise you that 
you shall not he balked in your fancy it it can possibly be avoided. 
J.S she young or old, rich or poor, black or white?” 

“ She is older than you, my boy, but not much — that is to say, 
not a great deal, not so much as need— need — need interfere with 
perfect happiness to both of you. She has been — been married be- 
fore; but, dear me, what is that? She has no children, and her fort- 
une is in her own right— that is no slight recommendation.” 

“ Do 1 know the lady, sir?” said Walter. 

“ Yes, my boy, yes, you do, and the other day — you dog! — 1 
thought she seemed— you seemed — that is,” finished the baronet, 
with a laugh, as he also threw himself back in his chair, ” both of 
you seemed to understand one another very well, at least 1 thought 
so.” 

“ I think 1 know whom you mean,” said Walter 

” 1 won’t leave you in any doubt, my boj^ — Mrs. Stanhope is the 
Mady — she likes you, I’m sure; you’re a smart young fellow, likely 
enough, as she knows, to get on, and she’s a woman just calculated 
to help an ambitious man on his way. 1 won’t say anything about 
her money, though 1 happen to know that that’s not at all a trifle; 
she’s a most charming woman is Mrs Stanhope, and I believe, 
Walter,” said Sir Headingly, rising, and patting liis nephew on the 
shoulder, ” that if you choose to say the word you can make that 
lady — and a lady she is that any young fellow might be proud of — 
you can make that lady Mrs. Rivers, whenever you like. Think 
over it, my dear boy, think over it,” and having made his point and 
disburdened himself of his opinion, the fond uncle withdrew into the 
house and left his nephew to ponder over his idea. 

Walter sat for some few minutes in profound meditation, and then 
rose, and taking a cigar frJRi his case, fit it and strolled across the 
lawii and into one of the shrubberies. There was an air of complete 
satisfaction on his face, and he was bright and radiant with delight, 
and laughed softly to himself as he strolled to and fro. 

‘‘ By Jove!” he said to hirhself, ” it’s exactly my handwriting. I 
should have mentioned it to the governor in a day or two, and I was 
half-afraid he wouldn’t like it; how splendid, his hitting on the idea 
himself ; who on earth could have dreamed of such luck?” 

Backward and forward he walked exulting in his youth, his 
health, and his fortune, with the sun shining on him, the birds sing- 


As AYOK FLOWS. 


33 


fng round him, li£;ht*hearted, joyous, with no more cloud in his life 
than he could have seen in the sky above him. He fell to thinking 
'over his past career, and there was nothing in it that he could recall 
(with the exception of his mother’s death) but was gay and cheerful 
and painless, and free of all care, and now came this crowning piece 
of good fortune. He liked her very much, this stately beautiful 
widow% with the shining black tresses that framed the handsome 
oval face, lit with those glorious dark liquid eyes; almost loved her; 
would not break his heart if she refused him, but would go dutifully 
back to his uncle and be sure of his sympathy; thought she would 
make him an excellent wife, and really determined to be a good hus- 
band to her — if — if it came about; stood a little in awe, perhaps, of 
his splendid lady, and cared not to risk the danger of making those 
dark eyes light up with angry fire, and quite honestly resolved not 
to bring that about if it were possible to avoid it. 

What will she s^y to me, 1 wonderV” he said, as the blue rings 
t)f smoke went curling among the laurels; “ most likely laugh at me 
-at first; 1 know her little weakness for being fond of conquest. I 
wonder if there’s any fellow — 1 don’t believe there is— 1 think Shel- 
■man got his dismissal some little time back. Yes, Mr. Alfred, I 
fancied I heard the knell of your hopes sounded when you were 
'telling me of that little matter of the Coombes, and I’m not sorry 
lor it, for you’re an ill-conditioned fellow at the best of ti • es — and 
I’m not — 1 think i can say without any self -laudation 1 am not, 
!No, madam, if you elect me for your husband you won’t get a bad- 
tempered brute with a confoundedly murderous twitching kind of 
a udstril and with a vicious homicidal pair of thin lips. You won’t 
get that, madam, as pait of your bargain, and 1 congratulate j^ou 
with all my heart, and when 1 thought you were going to get the 
thin lips and the twitchy nostril, 1 was rather sorry for you, I was 
indeed; 1 may say 1 was very ^orry for you; and I think 1 may also 
say that you’re about to have a much better ofl;er--a much more 
comfortable sort of offer, madam, much •more comfortable, 1 assure 
you.” 

He resumed his walk, which he had interrupted for his soliloquy, 
and serenely and calmly puffed away at his cigar; he knew hiis 
uncle would be pleased at his giving some little time to the consider- 
ation of his weighty scheme; would think, perhaps, that lie was 
throwing over some pet plans of his own to please him, and he knew 
and estimated to a grain the value of such a thought in his uncle’s 
mind. When he had twice traversed the path he stopped again, and. 
his face became more thoughtful. 

” 1 suppose there will be a scene between us, Master Alfred, if she 
should say ‘ yes ’‘-^yes, there will certainly be a scene; well, things 
must blow over. I don’t much mind you as a rival for the widow’s 
good graces, my dear fellow, but 1 doii’t want you tor a rival tor the 
borough’s good graces. Uncle has been lucky to have no contest for 
all these years— precious lucky; electioneering would come pretty 
expensive in Avonham, 1 expect, after so many years quiet, and the 
Carlton would expect the place to be kept at all hazards. Well, it 
must all be risked, and, by Jove, it’s worth risking, too. Uncle 
wants to see me settled. 1 wonder if he’d agree to seeing me settled 
2n Parliament. Does he fancy the party will give him a peerage? 


34 


AS AYOK PLOWS. 


1 don’t. No, no, the baronetcy was his reward for holding this part 
oi the county so long. It was- a ticklish thing with a Radical 
borough four miles off, but it’s safe enough now, 1 think. We’ll 
see, we’ll see; there was no hint that way this morning, but it must 
be made a reward for obedience, too. It all falls out as well as pos- 
sible; 1 must reall.y be in an upstream of luck. Well, now for 
uncle.” 

As he stepped on to the lawn he saw the old man, seated in the 
chair which he had occupied at breakfast; he had ordered the table 
to be cleared, and his newspapers and two or three books were now 
on it; he was composing himself for his afternoon reading. He 
smiled as Walter crossed the grass as though he could see by his face 
that his wishes were in a fair way of being carried out. Walter 
spoke first. 

“ Well, my dear uncle,” he said, holding out his hand, which the 
other clasped heartily, ” it shall be as you wish, and without any- 
thing but pleasure on my part, 1 assure you.” 

Right, my boy, right,” cried the baronet, joyfully. “ I’m glact 
to hear it — glad to hear it, my boy.” 

“ We mustn’t hurry matters though, you know, sir,” said Walter. 
” Ladies who have so many swains at their feet won’t be rushed 
into matrimony by the first impetuous youth who proposes it to 
them, you know. ” 

” Take your own time, my dear fellow, take your own time, and 
your own method of wooing; 1 don’t understand the business at all; 
but W^ alter,” he added, looking up at him rather seriously, ” don’t,, 
my boy— -don’t marry any woman or propose to any woman jus% be- 
cause you wish to please your old uncle; let there be love and re- 
spect and admiration in the mailer, 1 pray, my dear fellow. If 1 
thought that I had induced you to ally yourself with any woman 
with whom you didn’t live happily, 1 should be very miserable and 
unhappy about it, 1 can assure you.” 

” My dear uncle,” said Walter, in a burst of frankness, “ you need, 
not have the slightest delicacy about that; you said just now joking- 
ly t^iat we seemed, that is, Mrs. Stanhope and 1 seemed, to under- 
stand one another very well. Well, really; sir, there is a good deal 
of truth in your jest. 1 think, without being in the least conceited 
about it, that 1 have as good a chance with the lady as any one else, 
l^ve a very great admiration tor her, and although it isn’t the usual 
thing for young men to marry women ten years older than them- 
selves, yet such a handsome woman as she is never seems old to any 
one who admires beauty. 1 only hope,” finished Walter, ” that she 
won’t upset your plans by giving me a plump and plain ‘ No ’ for my 
answer when 1 do speak' finally; but of course youdinowi must take 
my chance of that, and my word for it, uncle, I’ll do my best to 
win her!” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE OOOD TOWN OF AVONHAM IS THOROUGHLY EXCITED. 

Once a fortnight, not in solemn conclave, but in conviviality and 
^ood-will, the fathers of the township met. The oldest of all these 


AS AYOl^ FLOWS. 


35 


fathers could not remember the foundation of the club; its early 
history was obscured by fable and was well-nigh legendary. Sum- 
mer or winter, wet or fine, the large oak-paneled upper room of the 
Bear Hotel received on club nights the worthiest burgesses, of 
Avonham, who sat and gossiped, smoked and drank together on 
^very alternate Monday, and four times a year dined in great state, 
having previously ransacked the county tor dainties and delicacies of 
the season. 

The club was nameless; this was a great and solemn fact; it needed 
' not the bush of a specific designation, of itself and by itself xt was good. 
It was select in the broadest sense of the word ; election to it was 
rare. When some well-known face was missing, when some town- 
worthy had smoked his last pipe and eaten his last club dinner, when 
the remaining cronies had stood round his grave and, as they ex 
pressed it, “ seen the last of poor old So-and so,” then, at the next 
meeting, it would happen that, after much reflective smoking and 
meditative sipping of tumblers, some one or other of the fathers 
would allude to the loss they had sustained, and the club would pro- 
ceed to fill the vacant chair. Or it would sometimes chance that, 
some honor being done to an Avonham man which tiansformed him 
into an Avonham worthy, he would be told that the club was will- 
ing to receive him with open arms, and, this compliment being most 
rarely paid, never failed to overwhelm the individual (so he always* 
said when his health was first proposed at a club dinner) with so 
keen an appreciation of the honor done him, that he was utterly un- 
able to adequately describe it in words. Thus the club flourished 
like a well-grown oak, never perceptibly increasing in size, but 
maintaining unimpaired its pristine vigor, and standing the envy 
:and pride of the country round. 

The room in which , these worthy men met on Monday evenings 
was one of the fine old oaken chambers which are, alas! now giving 
way before the cold, encaustic tiles and maddening minute mosaics 
of the railway-fed hotels of to-day. But there are yet plenty of them 
in England, mind you, for him who loves them and looks tor them. 
Down in classic Warwickshire, merry Wiltshire, breezy Sussex, 
pleasant Norfolk, glorious Kent, they may yet be found by the score. 

1 used to know two or three in Bristol — are they yet there? There 
gis a glorious one at Stratford and a model one in Leicester; and one 
f or two still resolutely hold out, like the sturdy old tree from which 
their wainscots are cut, against the improvements and changes of 
house-leveling London itself. 1 swear that in them the ale is stronger, 
the spirits have a richer taste, the ghosts of countless bowls of de- 
parted punch give a mysterious flavor to the toddy of to-day. The 
old oak is impregnated with the subtle spices and the piquant lemon, 
^nd freely imparts of their aroma. Encaustic tiles quotha! What 
do encaustic tiles know of punch? The making of punch will be a 
lost art soon, like the staining of glass or the reading of the stars, 
and we shall hear some day a lecture on a punch bowl and ladl§, as 
1 once heard a lecture on a tinder-box. 

But there was punch enough in the world at the time of our tale 
and maybe even a tinder-box or two in some of the farm-houses round 
about; and the bowl would have been smoking no doubt but for the 
fact of its being summer, one of the warmest too within the recol- 


36 


AS AYO:^^ FLOWS. 

lection of old worthies. But the large windows at the end of the 
room were thrown open, a pleasant evening breeze was cooling the 
sun-parched town, Mrs. Pinnifier, who made the club her own- 
especial charge, was as skillful in the concoction of cold drinks as 
of hotj and so it came about that on this particular evening eight 
o'clock found the club-room pretty full, and the evening breeze had 
plenty to' do to dispel the fragrant blue clouds that rose from the 
pure white bowls of twenty slim, wax-tipped churchwarden pipes. 
The club did not meet during the week of the fair, so that it was a 
month since it had assembled, and all present knew that in addition 
to the ordinary proceedings of the evening there would be some 
mention made of the loss sustained by the death of old Mr. Rax, and 
very likely another worthy would be elected. The chairmanship of 
^ the meeting was arranged by rotation, each of the members in turm 
filling that office, and on this evening old Mr. Beadlemore Arto, the 
corn dealer, miller and straw salesman, after hanging up his hat and 
. giving a cheery “ good evening ” to his cronies, seated himself in the 
place of honor at the head of the room, and calling on the obse- 
quious waiter for a large glass of cold gin, and receiving from him a. 
screw of mild Bristol bird's-eye, filled and lighted a pipe which he 
^ took from a pile before him, and, solemnly smoking, looked round 
the room to see who were already assembled. 

Sealed at his right ^as Mr. Abel Bompas, who was a most re- 
spected and infiuential member of the little circle, and who had 
scarcely ever been known to miss a meeting ; next him was Mr. 
Christopher Raraty, the postmaster of the town, learned in horse- 
flesh and eloquent of the old coaching days when he himself drove 
the Defiance a hundred and sixty miles in eighteen hours, stoppages 
included; and then Mr. Barnabas Chickleholt, who was rough of 
exterior and aflected— only affected, mind you — a grumpiness of 
manner which caused strangers to look upon him as having beem 
improperly named by his sponsors, and as being anything but a son 
of consolation. Then sturdy John Rann, the market clerk, wdio was 
the center of all the political business of the town. Next to him was 
the enormous form of ex-mayor Killett, most prosperous of sinecur- 
ists, the only butcher in Avonham, as his father and grandfather had 
.. been before him, a giant with the carcass and strength of a raging. 
_ bull, and the manners of a Southdown lamb. , 

As a contrast in size, but a counterpart in manners, Mr. Reuben 
Matley came next to him, the organist of the parish church and 
teacher of music and drawing, a real genius blushing tmseen in this 
^ little Marlshire towm for sheer want of that impudence and dash that 
had taken men with half his ability into the front rank of native 
musical talent. Opposite his burly son, to whom he had transferred 
- his business some years ago, was old “ Master " Killett, the Nestor 
of the country side now that Mr, Rax was gone, a hale, weather- 
bitten, fresh-colored man. of over fourscore years, who fifty years 
. before had been the foremost man at backsword and elbow and col- 
lar wrestling for twenty miles around. And facing the chairman 
was Dr. Mompesson, who used laughingly to declare that there was 
no rest for him, for his old patients would not let him retire; he was 
the antiquarian authority of the place, and was generally supposed 
In his knowledge of the Sarsen stones and K^stvaens on the MarB 


AS AVOK PLOWS^ 


B7 

shire Downs to be a very Druid. And beside him was Mr. Sennett 
— Lawyer Sennett he was generally called — who made all the Avon- 
hani wills and injured his business but increased his circle of friends 
by patching up half the country-side quarrels, and on whose shoul- 
ders this year rested the awful responsibility of being mayor. 

On Mr. Arto's left was Mr. Daniel Follwell, the proprietor of the 
small woolen factory of the town, who turned out a small quantity 
of cloth each year, but that of so rare a quality and so precious a 
value that it was whispered that the, one great London tailor to 
whom it was all sold reserved it entirely for the backs of dukes and 
earls, and that ah untitled dignitary might pray for a coat of it in 
vain. Mr. Follwell was a short man, who, to judge by his dress, 
neither wore his own cloth iior employed the great London tailor 
aforesaid, and whose rebellious stubby head of hair gave him the 
uninviting appearance of an overgrown cloth teazle. Mr, Benjamin 
Pollimoy was his neighbor : a man of mark in the club, a traveled 
man, a man who had seized the advantages ofiered to all who would 
expand their minds, and had expanded his by visiting the Exhibition 
of '51, a man most loyal of the loyal, almost royal indeed, he hav- 
ing once seen the queen ; he was not the rose exactly, but he had 
been very, very near it, and was looked up to accordingly. 

Then came two brothers, the inseparables of Avonham, Wolsten- 
holme Pye and Huppenner Pye, fellmongers, two little wizened- 
faced old men, who silently absorbed vast quantities of liquor with 
no other effect than that produced by the air-pump upon a wrinkled 
apple— the good spirits seemed to smooth out the lines on their faces 
by decrees, until at the close of the sitting they looked quite sleek- 
faced for a time. ext to Hoppenner was Mr. Timotby Rapsey, an 
amiable Paul Pry, always burning for information and utterly una- 
ble to resist the temptation of diving into his neighbors’ affairs; a. 
good-humored little fellow, however, and without the least grain of 
mischief in him. 

Mr, Beadlemore Arto surveyed the club in silence for some min- 
utes, laid down his pipe, buried his face in his goblet, then placed it 
on the table and gave a sigh. This was a signal thrown out to the 
club, and was immediately replied to by a universal shake of the 
head and an answering sigh. 

“ Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Arto, ” 1 suppose there ain’t much 
need for me to say what we’re all a-thinking of this minute. Pore 
old Mister Rax, he’v a-gone at last.” 

“Ay, ay, for sure he have,” said old “ Master” Killett, amid a . 
soft murmur of “ ah!” from the rest of the club. 

“ Ninety-one years,” said Mr. Raraty, “ninety-one years an^ 
hearty an’ well till pretty nigh the last, warn’t he, Mas’r Killett?” 

“ Ay, sure he were,” said the old man, “ he sent for I two days 
afore he died, an’ he says, ‘ Mas’r Killett,’ says he, ‘ you’m my fust 
pall-bearer you know ’—picked ’un all out a’ had— ‘‘mind you see,’ 
says he, ‘ as they don’t carry 1 no ways head fust,’ he says, ‘ n’yet 
contrariwise agin the sun,’ he says. He were just as sens’ble as 
that you see, right up to the very last. Why!” said the old man, 
looking round, “ we was at school together, we was, nigh upon 
eighty years agone. Lor’, I was a little ’un then, an’ he used to 


38 " AS AYOK FLOYDS. 

mind an’ see as t’other chaps didn’t steal my dinner; lor! lor! 1 can 
mind it well.” ^ 

Been a good man for this town too,” said Wolstenholme Pye, 
who was immediately followed by his brother, who croaked in 
chorus, ” A good man for this town.” 

‘‘ Ah, yes!” said Robert Killett the younger, “ and lived here all 
his life too — that he have.” 

” All his life, all His life!” said Mr. Pollimoy, the traveler — the 
royalist — ” never went above twenty miles from. the town in his life, 
1 don’t believe — ’ceptin’ to Bisnopsbury when^h&was vicar’s church- 
warden, limes. "Why, when 1 was going up to London — just to im- 
prove my mind, you know— he was one of the very men 1 asked to 
go loo— so he was — you was another, Mr. Sennett, so you was.” 

“ Yes 1 was, Ben, 1 was,” said the mayor. 

“ And you went up, Mr. Bompas, didn’t you? Ah, to you did.” 

” 1 visited the World’s Fair in company with Mrs. Bompas; Mr. 
Pollimoy, your recollection of incidents is unerring,” said our friend 
Abel, sententiously. 

“ But you didn’t see the queen, you know, did you, Mr. Bompas? 
You wasn’t there whilst she come to the great exhibition, was you, 
sir?” 

“ The felicity of beholding the lineaments of my sovereign has 
yet been withheld from me,” said Mr. Bompas. “ Her most gra- 
cious majesty has no more loyal subject than myself, Mr. Mayor, 
but 1 have never seen her; 1 believe our friend, Pollimoy, is alone 
in that respect in the club.” 

‘‘1 am, 1 am!” ^aid Mr. Pollimoy, “and if poor old Rax had 
only a’ come with me he might a’ seen her too. Dear,<lear, if he 
could only come back again, and could only, so to speak, go and see 
her — lor’! what a comfort that ’ud be, if it was for ever so little a 
time. Ah dear!” he added, slowly, raising his glass to his lips, and 
sighing profoundly, “ what wouldn’t he give to be able to come 
back and do so now?” 

The club audibly sighed and replied — in detachments — “ What 
indeed?” 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the chairman, “ what Mr. Pollimoy 
says is always improvin’, and of course ef we could on’y see the 
pore old gentleman back again, it ’ud be a great comfort for us all. 
But we can’t, pore old fellow, and so it ain-t a bit o’ use talkin’ 
about it. On’y I was thinkin’ as it’s usual for us to send as a club 
a bit of sympathy like, nicely wrote out and that, and 1 was a-goin’ 
to move as it should be done, but you see there’s no one to send it 
to— old Mr. Rax he’d outlived all his relatives, and, as we all know, 
left his money, and quite right too, mind you, to charities here, and 
down in Bath and Bristol, hospitals and such-like, besides mourn- 
ing rings for this club, which 1 daresay every gentleman in this 
room’s a- wearing his now.” 

General survey of hands. 

“ Consequently 1 was thinking that as it’s our rule- 1 won’t go 
so fur as to say our invariable rule, but at any rate, our very fre- 
quent rule— to elect another member of this here club, why 1 move 
as we set about it” 

Ihis pioposition meeting the approval of the club, the electioa 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 


89 


proceeded. It resembled no other kind of election whatever. Mr. 
(Jhickleholt, who had sat very quiet, grunted out the name of an 
old Avonham tradesman, and his neighbors said, “Ah! he’d be a 
good man.” And after a pause Mr. Raraty mentioned another 
name, and everybody else said “Yes, or him either;” and then Mr. 
Matley mildly suggested that Mr. Arto should ask the first-named 
gentleman whether he would like to join them, and that if he 
would, why^hen perhaps the other gentleman mifirhh—here he made 
a pause, for he was about to say “ wait for another vacancy,” but 
that seemed calculated to up^el Master Killett, who, being the oldest 
man in the room, was more likely to make a vacancy than anyone 
else, so he contented himself with saying “ that the other gentleman 
might, if the first one consented to come among them, be elected as 
well as he, but that in case Mr. Arto’s application to the first gentle- 
man proved ineftectual, then the second party might drop in natur- 
ally to the vacancy.” This, though some^vhat in advance of the 
ideas of the club, was well received, and the cronies said in chorus, 
“ Just so, first rate!” 

And then, as it by mutual consent, the subject of old Mr. Rax 
dropped, and conversa^^ion became general and was carried on in 
louder and more cheerful tones. There was not a wide range of 
subjects in Avonham, but to wear those few threadbare was the 
delight of the club. These friends had met on hundreds of nights 
and had talked the same small-talk; the same subjects had lasted 
their fatheis’ time and their own tod, and it was* only very rarely 
that any matter of special import cropped up; but to-night the club, 
which had already gone a little out of its usual course, was to be 
still more excited and interested by its interchange of ideas. The 
talking had been proceeding for perhaps hall an hour and was pretty 
nearly in full swing, when Mr. Robert Killett turned suddenly to 
his left-hand neighbor and said, 

“Why, Mr Rann, you’re very quiet t-’night; anything amiss, 
sir? 1 don’t think I’ve hardly heerd you speak'yet. Kothin’ wrong 
as there?” 

The ex-mayor’s hearty voice was heard above all the surrounding 
hum of talk, and everyone stared at Mr. Rann, who, slowly taking 
his pipe out of his mouth, answered Mr. Killett’s kind inquiry. 

“Lor! no, Mr. Killett, what should be amiss, sir. 1 was just 
turning public affairs over in my mind a bit, that’s all — that’s all, 
sir.” 

Now Mr. Rann was, as we have said, the center of political'life 
in Avonham ; he had been bursting with desire to speak, but knew 
full well that the best way of attracting attention was to be con- 
spicuous by silence, which would lead to his being drawn out, and 
he hailed the opportunity with quiet joy. 

“ Anything fresh from London, Mr. Rann?” said the mayor. 

“ Well, Mr. Mayor,” said Mr. Rann, “ the fact is that if it hadn’t 
been for the very painful opening part of this evenin’s proceedings, 
1 should have put before this meeting a proposition tor discussing 
the present po-liti-cal crisis, but 1 thought it better not, sir — 1 
thought it perhaps on the ’ole better not.” ' 

“ I saw they were a bit at sixes and sevens in Parliament House,” 
said Mr. Rapsey. “ Whatever is it, Mr. Rann? what are they go* 


40 


AS AVOl^ FLOWS. 

ing to do? 'wiU there be a election — has Sir Ileadingly been tele- 
graphed to? 1 saw Mr. Rivers in the street to-day, and 1 was just 
crossing the road to see where he was going to, but 1 saw Mr. 
Oalbraith’s colored man go into the grocer’s, and 1 couldn’t make 
out what he was doing there on Monday, for he bought three pounds 
of coffee and his usual lot ot butter and things on Saturday, and it 
seemed SO- curious that he should want to go in again on Monday 
that 1-— ah— missed Mr. Rivers.” 

, “Ah! well, Mr, Rapsey,” said Mr. Rann, sagely nodding his 
head, “ p’r’raps Mr. Rivers might have told anyone as asked him, 
p’r’aps he might not — my opinion is tffat he wouldn’t, even if he 
"knew — ah — half as much as 1 expect 1 do.” 

There was an assumption ot knowledge m this last speech so im- 
pressive and interesting that no one attempted to answer th:e politi- 
cian, but the entire club kept silence for a space. 

“It’s pretty well sure, mind you, gentlemen,” proceeded Mr. 
Hann, “ as Parliament will be dissolved, for mind you also, the 
ministry won’t go on any longer as 4he country is now, no, Mr. 
dhairman, they’ll dissolve themselves and go to the country, that’s 
what they’ll do; and then we shall have an election,” 

“ Not much likelihood of one here, Rann,” said the mayor. 

“ Begging your pardon, Mr. Mayor, but do you know, gentlemen 
all, that I shouldn’t be so very much surprised if there was to be an 
election 

The sound with which the members received this announcement 
was not a cry, nor a groan, it was something like a gasp of astonish- 
ment, and, being unanimous, was very impressive in its volume. 
Mr. Rann was evidently elated by it in no ordinary degree; hb laid 
down his pipe, leaned a little forward With his hands on his knees 
and triumphantly surveyed the astonished room. 

“1 opine,” said Mr, Bompas, breaking the silence, “that you 
liave reliable information in this matter.” 

Avonham won’t know itself, having a ’lection, that it won’t,” 
isaid Mr. Arto. 

“ Wake things up a bit,” said the doctor, rubbing his bands; he 
was a sturdy partisan of his own side, and it is distressing to see the 
camp in possession of the enemy for eighteen years and no attempt 
made by your leaders to take it from them ; there were one or two 
more in the room who would welcome any such attempt as well as 
he. 

For eighteen years Sir Headingly Cann had been the member for 
Avonham, in t^ib Conservative interest (or Tory as it was then 
called), and his position had never been assailed. He had been a 
steady voter for his own side, a constant and regular attendant at 
St. Stephen’s; he never gave the Whips the least anxiety, and 
seldom troubled the House with a speech, certainly never bored 
them with a Jong one; when he did lift up his voice it was on some 
«,gri cultural topic, and he was admitted to be an aiuthority on that 
point; he had never sought office, had no poor relations to be pro- 
vided for by the country, and was altogether a model representative 
of high character, and very much liked by members on both sides 
' ot the House, lu Avonham he was generous to the poor, watchful 
over the interest of the town; hospitable and affable, and a general 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 41 

favorite in the neighborhood; so that it had come to pass that, for 
many years, party politics had been a dead- letter in Avonham. 
Contented with a member who was a moderate and liberal-minded 
man, people were unwilling to rim the risk of that upheaval of 
society which takes place in a small town at election times, and„ 
when they read of scenes of riot, of military interference, andt 
damaged propert}^ they congratulated themselves upon their im- 
munity from such scenes, and were entirely satisfied with the ol(^ 
state of things. 

But all this time there had been slowly and almost imperceptibly 
growing up in Avonham that unreasoning dislike to long continued, 
customs so characteristic of younger generations, four miles froui^ 
Avonham was the pocket-borough of Dunstalne, which returned a 
very advanced Liberal, with the same consistency that Avunhaui 
showed toward iis mild Tory; and the advanced Liberal members 
for Dunstalne was one of the great lights of Parliament, a brilliant 
speaker, an able statesman, who had been twice a member of the 
Cabinet; so that Dunstalne was apt to be loud in praise of the man 
it had chosen, and the praise reached four miles, and excited interest 
in Avonham, so much so that when the great man came down to 
address his constituents, he would have fifty or sixty of the younger 
politicians of Avonham among his audience, and this fact was not 
unobserved by the leaders, the great wire-pullers ot the party, so 
that a kind of thumb-nail note was made of Avonham at the Re- 
form Club, and it was hinted at as a place not unworthy the honor 
of an assault. Still it was somewhat hard to realize at first, partic- 
ularly as not half a dozen people in the town had feally seriously 
thought about the contingency at all. 

“ Why, ’’ said Hoppenuer Pye, for -once startled into speaking- 
before his brother, whatever makes you think we shall have an 
election, Mas’r Rann. Who is there to put up against Sir Heading- 
ly?'’ 

“Ah!” echoed Wolstenholme, “who’s going up against Sir 
Headingly?” 

“ They’ll send a man from London,” grumbled Mr. Barnabas 
Chickleholt, “ and a fine chance have.” 

“ Not they,” said Mr. Rann, with great scorn; “ not they, there’s 
one or two near about here as’ll be chosen before any Londoner.” 

“ We don’t want any strangers here,” said Mr. Foil well, “nor 
yet we don’t want any election that 1 can see; what’s the matter 
with our member, 1 should like to know; he’s been our member for 
eighteen years, and nobody’s ever put up against him before. It 
seems pretty late in the day to begin now, 1 think. Come, Mr. 
Rann, you know more about these things than 'we do — leastways 
you take more interest in ’em than we do; whd do you think’s go- 
ing to oppose Sir Headingly?” 

“I’m not saying tor certain that anyone’s going to oppose Sir 
Headingly, but this 1 do know, that I’ve been told by three or four 
Dunstalne men, ay, and good men too, that Avonham’s. going to 
he fought for next election, and 1 can see for myself, and so can 
anyone here by just looking at the paper, that we sha’n’t be many 
weeks, no, nor not many days, before the ministers’ll go to the 


42 AS AVON PLOWS. 

country, and then we small see what we shall see, you mark my 
words if we don’t/’ 

In a few minutes all tongues were going on the one topic. Every 
man in the room was, of course, a voter, and although the majority 
of them were “ blue,” there was a sprinkling of “ yellow ” material 
suflacient to cause just the proper amount of friendly argument 
necessary ; to the astonishment also of the landlady, the Club ex- 
ceeded its usual time of rising by at?^ east halfmn-hour, and the mem- 
bers left together, and until midnight small knots of therh stood at 
-street corners discussing eagerly the astounding information con- 
veyed to them by Mr. Ilann, who, perfectly satisfied of his own im- 
portance in the eyes of his club fellows, ^rent home by himself, 
chuckling. 

The next morning. Sir Headingly Cann and his nephew were seen 
hy the indefatigable Timothy Kapsey, driving swiftly through Avon- 
ham toward the railway station, five miles from the town; this event 
was duly reported by him to those of his friends whom he met dur- 
ing the day, and w^as at the present stage of aftairs much commented 
on. The next morning’s papers contained an account of the minis- 
terial defeat in the House— and following hard upon this came the 
dissohition. Then, for the first time, tor eighteen years, was any 
political excitemertt visible in Avonham. In every public-house, at 
every tea-table, on the market, in the street, in shops and offices, and 
everywhere that men do congregate, nothing was talked of for a 
week but the election. For a week no sign was made^ and the old 
Conservatives of Avonham were just lulling thernselves to sleep again 
when a most surprising event happened. 

Sir Headingly had issued small and well-printed handbills, which 
had been posted to every voter on the register, announcing briefiy 
the fact of the dissolution and his intention of offering himself again 
for election, but had made no other public sign. One Tuesday night 
the little town w^ent serenely to sleep as usual, and when it was 
buried in repose certain mysterious figures emerged from theAVdol- 
pack Inn, and, after a short consultation at the door, separated and 
dispersed in various directions. They traveled in pairs,, one of each 
couple bearing a large can, the 6thef a bundle of printed papers. 
For two hours they were absent, and returned to the Woolpack 
as quietly as they had left it. When Avonham woke the next 
morning it was as though a shower of yellow hills had been rained 
on it in the night; some of these bills called on the Men of Avon- 
ham to free themselves from the political yoke which had too long 
pressed on their necks, to protest against vested interests, to demand 
correct representation of themselves and their town, to be do longer 
slaves, but to think and act for themselves. These were signed by 
” A Townsman.” Other yellow bills were more modest in tone; 
they set forth that tho author had been waited upon by a large and 
influential deputation, and had been requested to ofter himself as a 
candidate for the great honor of lepresenting the town in Parlia- 
ment; that he thanked them for this mark of confidence, and would 
so offer himself. It described his principles; it assured the town 
that though ” progress ” was his motto, ” loyally ” was his text; 
that he pledged himself to spare no efforts to obtain for Avonham a 
Kailway Bill, ” long promised, but apparently forgotten;” that thia 


AS AYOIT FLOWS. 


43 


and all other matters affecting the town should be his peculiar care, 
and wound up by hopefully and trustfully committing himself to the 
hands of his fellow-townsmen, for Avonham had no more sincere 
well wisher than its obedient servant, Anthony Kumberton Bold- 
ham, who dated his address from the local bank. 

“ What did 1 tell you, Mr. Mayor?’' said Mr. Rann to his friend 
next day. “ We shall have an election, after all! What chance has 
Mr. Boldham against Sir Headingly?” 

Not much, 1 think,'' said the mayor, who had been rather anx- 
ious for the last few days at the thought that he must venture into 
the fray, whichever side gained. 

“1 don’t know, Mr. Mayor,” said the keen old market clerk. 
‘‘ Tou see, Sir Headingly hasn’t got much Avonham property — 
hasn’t half-a-dozen voting tenants in the town, and don’t mix up 
with the trade of the place.” 

” Well, what of that?” 

” Well, sir, Mr. Boldham do. There's two or three men — ah, a 
dozen or more — men of influence, that ’ud look very queer if Mr. 
Boldham was to get away from behind ’em. And we’ve been with- 
out any party feeling for so long that there ain’t much real politics 
in the town. People’ll vote a good deal by interest, Mr. Mayor.” 

Mr. Mayor walked slowly up the street, pondering. 

‘‘We must work hard, sir,” said Walter to his uncle. “We must 
have a meeting this week. Let me get the bills out to-night.” 

“1 am astounded,” said Sir Headingly, “at the ingratitude of 
Boldham. A man whom 1— but there, Walter, do as you wish. It 
was my desire, when 1 saw you settled, to have resigned in your 
favor ; and really, 1 am too old for such a strife as this is likely to 
be. 1 wish you had to — ” 

He paused, and W alter waited with beating heart. 

“No,” said the old man, rising to his feet, “ there's another fight 
left in me for the good cause. Get out the bills to-night. 1 will 
meet the electors in the Town Hall on Friday. I will leave you to 
your work, my boy, and go and prepare some facts for my speech.” 

“H'm!” said Walter to himself, as the door closed behind his 
uncle, “ this falls about badly; no time for courting now. 1 was in 
hopes that he— well, welh it can’t be helped. 1 suppose. Master 
Alfred, you’re helping your uncle over this. Come along, my boy, 
1 think we hold the winning cards. It’ll hit a big hole in lour 
thousand pounds, though.’' 

-“Lawks a daisy how, Bill! Fancy a 'lection to Avonham!” 
said Mrs. Hackett to her liege lord. “ Why, thee’lt happen get a 
vive- pound note for thy vote. Bill!” 

“ Yive pound be dazed!” said the free and independent elector, 
laying down Mr. Boldham’s address. “ No vive- pound won’t suit 
me, 1 tell ’ee. 1 means to miake thicky-thur ’lection last me aal 
aaver winter time, see now.” 


AS AYO^ FLOWS, 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE “ KECLUSE ’’ COMBS OUT. 

There was one point concerning Galbraith upon which all Avon-, 
ham was agreed. He was a thorough horseman. In a county of 
hunting men he was already distinguished tor the grace of his seat, 
for the fineness of his hands, and for the dashing style of his riding. 
It ivas not exactly the English hunting seat which he adopted— there 
Was a something in it, men said, that told that the horseman had 
been used to wilder scenes than an orthodox fox-hunt; but it was 
certain that between horse and man there was such a thorough un- 
derstanding that the two together might have formed a Centaur. 
Riding, seemed the chief amusement in tvhich the occupant of the 
Ooonibes indulged. Every fine morning saw him mounted and 
quitting the town in some direction; already another fim3 animal 
had been brought over by Hart, and the twm horses were regularly 
used; The negro, it was found, rode almost as well as his master, 
and was not indisposed to talk about^horses to the grooms whom he 
met at exercise. 

One morning Galbraith, mounted on the horse he had first pur- 
chased, rode quietly up the street, and passing carefully through a 
small knot of townsfolk who were engaged in talking over the ap- 
proaching election, stopped in front of the Bear. Mr, Pinhiffer 
saw him pull up, advanced to the door and bowed. 

/‘ Good morning, sir!” 

, “ Godd-morning, landlord! I’ll get down for a moment.” 

” John, take the gen’l’man’s horse. Walk in, sir.” 

“ 1 suppose,” said Galbraith, when they stood in the old-fashioned 
jbar parlor, “you could knock me up a dinner of some sort on Fri- 
'day?” 

' Friday, sir. Yes, surely, sir. For how many, sir?” 

h‘or six, landlord. I shall have some friends down and shall 
want five beds here for them, and a good dinner.” 

“ Yes, sir, five bedrooms, sir, and dinner for six, sir. Now, what 
would you like tor dinner, sir? Would you like—” 

“I should like the best dinner you can put on the table, landlord. 
1 leave the choice of it entirely with you, and the price too.” 

The pleased Mr. Pinmfter bowed, and inwardly resolved that the 
'dinner should be worthy of the reputation (the well- deserved repu- 
tation too) of the Bear. 

“ Y^ou shall have the best the house can give you, sir,” he said. 
“ I’ll look after everything for you, myself, sir.” 

“ Thank you, landlord.” 

Hope you like Avonham, sir?” pursued the worthy man. 

■“ Very well, landlord, it seems a healthy place.” 

“ Very healthy, sir, very healthy,” said the landlord, with em- 
phasis; “as healthy a place as there is in the county, built up and 
clown hill a bit, you see, sir, easiiy drained, generally a breeze in 
the hottest o' times. My native place, sir,” Mr, Pinniffer said, 


AS AVOISr FLOWS. 


45 


c^rawing himselt np as if to confer honor on the town, and, as 1 
say, one ot the healthiest in England, 1 do believe.” 

For an unconimunicative man, such as Avonham had put him. 
down as being, Mr. Galbraith seemed very much inclined to chat 
this morning, ami Mr. Finn iff er felt extremely proud at having en- 
gaged the quiet, somewhat mysteiious stranger in something like a 
conversation; he now remembered the rites of hospitality, and said, 
atter praising his native place, 

” But won’t you take a glass of something this morning, sir?” 

“ Thank you, landlord, 1 was just going to asl^ you, ” said Gal- 
braith, seating himself and laying his whip upon the table; “ let me 
see what sort of champagne you intend to give us on Friday.” 

The delighted host was not hmg in producing a bottle of most 
excellent wine, and the bar-parlor customers coming in for their 
various morning drams were not a little surprised at seeing the 
stranger, whose quiet and reserved manners had been so oft^n the 
comment of the town, seated opposite to Mr. Pinnlffer, listening to 
his cheery town- talk, whilst both were doing justice to the flask of 
champagne standing before them. One or two had been in the house 
during Galbraith’s stay there, previous to the purchase of the 
Goombes, and these, venturing on a ‘‘ Good morning, sir,” were 
so affably answered, that they took heart and entered gladly into con- 
versation with him, to their great delight. Among these , favored 
individuals was Mr. Timothy Rapsey, who was quite unable*to con- 
ceal his joy at having at last got into conversation with the stranger 
who had baffled his most determined efforts, aud about whom he 
had been able to leai n next to nothing during his residence in Avon- 
ham. He knew not where to begirT to tackle him; he wanted to 
know so much that he ran some great chance of letting every oppor- 
tunitj?- slip in his anxiety to put the question that should tell him 
most; the election was, of course, the safest subject as being the 
most natural at the present time, and so on that he started; but, alas! 
he was foiled; Mr. Galbraith had no interest in it, did not possess a 
vote indeed, ami said so, rather curtly; he seemed to understand 
IMi. Rapsey pretty well, as that gentleman was quite shrewd enough 
to perceive. 

• But, it Mr. Galbraith had no interest in the election, others had, 
and to^start the subject was like starting afire in a straw-yard. 

Tirihy Mr. Pinniffer, whose neat wines and choice spirits were 
- loccnt of polincs, was the only other ^mao m the room disinclined 

enter upon the topic, everyone else seeming to fancy that the 
iuuiter could be just as well settled then and there by his own in- 
dividual vocal exertions as at the hustings. 

Galbraith lighted a cigar and listened, making no remark. 

The chief interest of the election seemed to be that it was less of a 
political than a personal contest, and that, however ardent a parti- 
san of one candidate a man might be. he was .always willing and in- 
deed eager to admit tiie virtues ot his opponent; it soon appeared 
that the Church party would follow Sir Headingly Gann and the Dis- 
senb'is Mr. Boldham; that the “ gentle-folk ” were supposed to be 
about equally divided, and lastly, that Sir Headingly seemed to have 
the better chance of winning, but that Mr. Boldham would be sure 
to run him pretty close aud nuike a hard fight of it. 


46 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


'' “ Tell you what, though,” said Mr. Arto, who had popped in 
fora small toothful,” and who did not seem inclined to pop out 
again, so engrossing was the conversation, ” tell you what 1 thought 
we should a-seen, instead of an election; and that is, gen’lemen^ 
Sir Headingly a-resigning and a-putting his nevvy up instead.” 

” Ah! yes, that was more like what everyone thought,” said Mr. 
Pinniff er, who could safely agree so far. 

” Well, then, I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Karaty; ” I’ll tell you 
what you'd have seen, you’d have seen Mr. Shelman put up against 
Mm as sure as you’re born, and all you’d have had instead of a fight 
between the old gentlemen, would a-been one betwixt the young 
’uns.” 

” Ah, and there ain’t overmuch Jove lost between them two now, 
mind you,” said Mr. Pollimoy, who was also a morning customer. 
“You should see them scowl at one another just now, in the 
market-place.” 

“ There wasn't much scowl about Mr. Walter Rivers, I’ll pound 
it,” said Mr. dlapsey, “ it’s the other that’s the—” 

“ Hush!” from two or three; there seemed to be a dislike to any 
direct personality. 

“ What’s to hush about?” said Mr. Rapsey; “why, dear me, dear 
me, it ain’t the election alone as makes the young men enemies; lor’ 
bless me, 1 could tell you something different from that,” and the 
little man pursed up his. lips and looked most monstrous wise. 
“ Y^oung men’ll quarrel about lots of things besides politics, mind 
you, and we all know there’s one object that they’ll mry soon fall 
out about, sooner than anything you can name a'most.” 

“ And what’s that, sir?” said Galbraith, as the speaker looked 
knowingly round the room. 

“What’s that, sir?” said Mr. Rapsey, “why, sir, it’s the ladies, 
sir, the ladies, that’s what it is”-— and the little man rubbed his 
hands and chuckled; “that’s what’s the cause of half the young 
men’s quarrels in this world, sir, you take my word for it, sir.” 

“ Weil, I’ve no doubt j^ou’re right, sir,” answered Galbraith. 

“Right! of course I’m right, sir,” said Timothy; “why, my 
belief is, gentlemen all, from what I’ve seen and heard in this 
here town— -ah — and from what I’m pretty well sure is right too, 
that it you were to look down to the very bottom of this very elec- 
tion business that’s exciting this town now, you’d find a lady in the 
case, you mark me if you wouldn’t.” 

“ Look here, Mas’r Rapsey,” broke in old Barnabas Chickleholt, 
who had- entered a moment before Mr. Rapsey ’s knowing little 
speech, “ your tongue is a running away from your brains, as it very 
often does, I’m sorry to say, when you get a-talking like that there; 
you ought to have more sense than to do it; first and foremost, the 
two young gentlemen as you’re a speaking of is in a measure })ound 
to be opposed at sech times as these, on account of their uncles. 
Why, who’d a thought three months, ay, or even three weeks ago, 
if you come to that, that Mr. Boldham ’ud a put up against Sir 
Headingly? — tell me that. Well, then, if it warn’t supposed three 
weeks back that the old gentlemen were going to oppose one an- 
other, why, who could have said that the young gentlemen would? 
As for any young lady being in the case, if you can show me any 


AS AVON FLOWS. 4'? 

.young lady in this town who’s got influence enough, or half influ- 
ence enough, to get up an election in a place where such a thing 
hasn’t been known for eighteen years, why all IVe got to say is you’ll 
have to point out some one that I’ve never seen,, nor anyone else 
either!” 

“ And pray, Mr. Chickleholt,” said the busy little gossiper, who 
had had a hard task to keep from answering before the end. of the 
speech, ‘pray, Mr. Barnabas, what might be your opinion of a 
young lady, now?” 

There was a pause. Each man looked at his neighbor, and Mrs. 
Piuniffer stopped with an ale glass halt-filled, and turned from the 
engine toward Mr. Kapsey. Chickleholt himself stared, but it 
would never do to be disconcerted, so he boldly and safely de- 
•inanded: 

“ What d’e mean?” 

” What do 1 mean, Mr. Chickleholl? Why 1 mean to say that, 
1 don’t know whether you heard me ri^ht, but 1 said, ‘ ladies,’ not 
‘young ladies.’ Now the lady that I’m thinking of isn’t exactly 
what some people w^ould call a j^oung lady, seeing that she’s been 
married before.” 

Mrs. 'Pinnifter handed to Mr. Earaty the glass of ale that she had 
filled in a great hurry (and not without spilling a little over her 
Wrist), and held up a warning finger to Mr. Rapsey. 

“ Mr. Rapsey,” said she, “if Mr. Chickleholt was to talk from 
now to to-morrow morning, he couldn’t say anything truer than 
what he said just now.” • ^ 

” And what was that, pray, Mrs. Pinniffer?” 

‘‘ Why, that your tongue runs away with your brains when you 
get a-talking sometimes. 1 know who jnu mean, Mr. Rapsey, and 
so do every one here, and I’ll lay you a farden cake and have the 
first bite of it, that she wouldn’t no more have either one of them 
young gentlemen than that she would have you; an' what’s more, 
Mr. Rapsey, it ain’t your place, nor no one else’s that I can see, to 
;go a-using of ladies’ names before people like this.’-’ 

“Mrs. Pinnifler,” said Mr. Rapsey, ‘‘1 haven’t mentioned any 
ladies’ names, have 1?.” 

” Not as yet, Mr. Rapsey, you haven’t, that I’ll own.” 

Well, then, Mrs. Pinnifler, why be hard on me for what 1 haven’t 
done?” 

‘‘ If you haven’t mentioned ndmes, Mr. Rapsey, you’ve pretty well 
hinted who you mean.” , 

There was a murmur round the room as the company said softly, 
with many sage nods, ‘‘Ay, ay — we know pretty well— best let 
names alone, Mas'r Rapsey!” 

Mr. Rapsey was discomfited and discomposed, and silently buried 
his face in his tankard; Mr. Galbraith rose, took up his whip, and 
having paid for the champagne and given a quiet ‘‘ good-day, gen- 
tlemen,’' to the room, walked out, and, mounting his horse at the 
door, rode oft out of the west end of the town. Those left behind 
had now a new topic of conversation. 

“ Don’t see a manjf gentlemen about here better mounted than 
what Mr. Galbraith is,” said the host, returning from the door 
whither he had escorted his guest. 


48 ' AS AVOK rLOWSi' 

Pine horse that chestnut; bought him last fair-day.’* 

“ Yes; Sam Hart bid for him; Mr. Shelman were purely vexed^ 
for he wanted him badly Iiisself/’ said Mr. Rarity; “ lie’ve bought 
another one of Sam, just as good a one as that one; Sam got hin^ 
from Melton; must a-got some money, 1 reckon.” 

“ Must have,” was the opinion of the room. 

Fine seat a hoss-back,” said a young farmer, “ and lor’ a’ do 
goo when a’ gets on they downs. I see ’un last Tuesday, as 1;. 
were out beyond Merhill, galloping over the turf just below the 
White Horse as haid as ever a’ could goo.” 

” Kice affable gent, too, he seems,” said Mr. Pollimoy; “ 1 never 
saw him here since he stayed here before he bought the Coombes;: 
don’t come in here generally, does he, Pinnifter?” 

“ITo,” said the host; ” he’ve been a pretty good customer, 
though. Haves his spirits fiom here, and a cask o’ my beer now 
and again. Got to get him a dinner for six o’ Friday; leaves every- 
thing to me — no matter abbut price. A good sort o’ gentleman 
that way — pays on the nail, and don’t grumble. 1 wish 1 had fifty 
private customers like him. ” 

‘ ‘ Dinner for six, ’ ' said Mr. Rapsey , recovering from his late setting' 
down; “who’s coming, Pinniffer, Avonham people?” 

“ Don’t think so,” said Pinnifer; “I’ve got to get beds ready 
for them.” 

“ Beds tor them!” Was this connected with the election? thought 
the room. Mr. Raraty opined not, as Mr. Galbraith had expressed 
no interest in the proceedings; Mr. Rapsey was eager to know all 
about it, but Mr. Pinniffer could give no information. Another 
strange circumstance connected with the stranger; it certainly waa 
most curious. 

Meanwhile the cause of these surmises and queries was quietly 
riding along the Dunstalne Road and up the rather steep Berry Hill 
which intervened between that towm and Avonham; he cantered 
easily along, skirting Dunstalpe without entering it and emerged on 
to the high road which exactly divides the rich table-land of the 
Marlshire Downs; there is scarcely another galloping ground in the 
kingdom like this, as the four or five trainers who daily use it know 
full well. More than one Derby winner has set the Marlshire village 
bells a'-»ringing; many of the equine heroes of Newmarket and 
Yorkshire have had to succumb to Marlshire trained racers, and 
horses who are not perfectly sound 'give their trainers less' anxiety 
on these velvety downs than at any other horsey center of England. 
Leaving the road, Galbraith pulled his horse together and sent 
him at a smart pacb for about a mile, then walked him quietly at the 
side of the road, just on the turf, riding past barrows where lay 
the bones of unknown heroes, unsung dead, and bowlders and stones 
whose use and meaning have baffled sages of all limes and of which 
nothing certain is known even now. He had proceeded in this way 
for some two miles, when he saw in front of him two horses, on one 
of which sat a lady, who was watching with great interest the 
action of a groom who was examining the foot of the other. As he 
approached nearer he perceived that the lady was Miss Adelaide 
Bompas, and that the old coachman and groom of the family was 
lamenting over his horse, which was dead lame. 


AS AYON FLOWS. 49 

“ ’Tis no good, Miss Addie,'^ said the old fellow, rising from hid 
inspection, “ yon’ll hev to goo alone, nther back or forrard; old 
Brownie can’t goo no further. 1 shall ha’ to lave ’un up to Mas’r 
Simmonds’ and walk into Dunstalne.” 

“ What a pity. Watts. AVell, that's what you must do; give me 
the papers; 1 must go on to Beytesbury myself.” 

The sound of the hoofs of Mr. Galbraith’s horse as he came up 
caused her to turn round and perceive the new-comer, who raised his 
hat; he drew up and looked at the groom’s hoise. 

” Have you met with an accident, Miss Bompas?” he courteously 
asked. 

” Yes, Mr. Galbraith. Poor Brownie has just fallen lame, I’ua- 
sorry to say,” 

” Can 1 be of any assistance?” he asked. “ Take my home, my 
man, and let me have a look at yours.” 

” ’Praid you can’t do nothin’, sir,” said Watts, touching his hafe 
and taking Mr. Galbraith’s horse. 

” I’m afraid not either,” said he, after a brief investigation of 
the quadruped’s foot. ” You’ll have a job to walk him home.” 

“You must do as you said. Watts,” said Miss Bompas. “ Leave 
him at Mr. Simmonds’. Give me the papers, and 1 will ride on to 
Beytesbury; you must get a lift home from Dunstalne or ahorse 
from the White Lion stables.” . 

She took the papers from the groom, and turning to Mr. Galbraith, 
thanked him for his offer of assistance. 

“ Indeed,” he said, “ I’m only sorry 1 can’t do any good. If you 
will allow me, though, Miss Bompas, as I’m going the same road, 1 
will ride with you in case you want a groom.” 

Miss Adelaide was as frank a specimen of a young lady as you 
would meet anywhere; she made no scruple as to this offer, but 
cheerfully accepted the proffered escort, and they rode on together,. 

“ He’s not entirely a recluse,” though Adelaide. “ It’s rather fun 
having met him like this; he rides well, too.” 

“ She’s prettier on horseback than she is afoot,” was Mr. Gal- 
braith’s meditation. “ I’m rather glad we came across each other 
like this. It’s better than a formal introduction.” 

“ You know the country pretty well 1 suppose, Miss Bompas?” 
said he, after a little silence. 

“Yes, pretty well. My sisters and 1 are always out riding, " 
they’ve gone* to Bath with mamma this morning, though, and as 
papa wanted some papers taken over to Beytesbury, 1 said 1 would 
ride over with Watts. Brownie stopped dead lame, though, just 
now, and 1 didn’t know what to do, for Brunetta here won’t stand 
very well, and is rather fidgetty to mount.” 

“ You’re fond of riding, of course?” 

“Yes, very. Papa was a capital horseman when he was younger, 
and he had us all taught when we were quite children. 1 can re- 
member my first pony as far bnck as 1 can remember anything. 
You seem pretty well accustomed to a horse, too, Mr. Galbraith.” 

“ Pretty well. Miss Bompas,” said Gabraith, with a quiet smile, 

“ my recollection of horses goes back like yours to very early youth. ” 
Do you like Avonham?” said Adelaide, as the next subject. 

“ Very well,” answered Galbraith. “ It is very prettily situated^ 


50 


AS ATOK FLOWS. 


aDd 1 suppose there is some sport round here in the shooting and 
hunting seasons?’' 

“ Oh, yes, plenty; there are three packs of hounds. Lots of 
shooting, and some of the best coursing in the country, 1 believe, 
just round about here. You hunt, ol course?” 

” 1 have never seen a fox-hunt, if you mean that.” 

Never seen a fox-hunt?” said Adelaide, opening a very bright 
pair of blue eyes in astonishment. “ Why, how is that?” 

” 1 have never lived anywhere where fox-hunting has been a 
sport. 1 have hunted other animals, but not the fox as yet: that 
has to come. 1 hope to have some sport with the hounds this 
I winter.” 

“Then you’ve lived abroad, 1 suppose?” said Adelaide. “At 
least, of course you must have done so; 1 needn’t ask, they don’t 
hunt anything in England but foxes — except deer and hares and 
otters, that is — ^ Wliat have you hunted?” 

“ Oh, all sorts of things,” said Galbraith, smiling; “ deer amongst; 
them, but we didn’t gallop after them with hounds; we shot them.” 

“ As they do in Scotland, 1 suppose?” 

“ 1 never was in Scotland, Miss Bompas. ” 

This answer savored rather to Adelaide like apiece of word-fencing, 
and she looked pretty keenly at her companion. He returned the 
V glance, and there was something* so comical in the situation that 
Adelaide rippled oat a merry little trill of laughter and Galbraith 
followed with a hearty peal, and then Miss Bompas slightly 
blushed and struck Brunetta. smartly with her dainty whip. 

“ Here we are,” she said, after a short period of silence. “ That 
is Beytesbury House on the green there.” 

“You are going to dismount?” 

“ Yes, 1 must, 1 have to give these papers to Mr. Millard himself, 
and he, 1 know, can’t get out.” 

“ 1 will take care of your horse for you till you return. ” 

“ Oh! thank you, one of the men will do that, Mr. Galbraith; 
pray don’t trouble.” 

They drew up in front of a fine old-fashioned house on the green. 
Galbraith leaped quickly from his horse and assisted Miss Bompas 
to dismount. A peal at the gate bell brought out a neatly-dressed 
handmaid, who summoned* a man to take the horses. 

“ 1 will wait for you here, Miss Bompas,” said Galbraith, and 
Adelaide thanking him, went into the house. , 

Mr. Millard was an old friend of Mr. Bompas, and Adelaide had 
been a great favorite of his for many years. Now it is one of the 
.privileges of old friends of a family to be very facetious with the 
daughters of the said family respecting their admirers, and Mr. 
Millard, who had seen from his window that Adelaide was accom- 
panied by a gentleman, was not slow in. availing himself of his 
rights. He listened gravel}^ to Adelaide’s account of Brownie’s lame- 
ness, and of the meeting on the road, and then laughing, said, 

“ Well, my dear, it’s an ill wind that blows .nobody good, and it 
poor Brownie got lame, you see, you got rid of an old man and met 
with a young one, so it’s not so bad after all. Ha, ha, ha!” 

“ Well, 1 couldn’t help that, could 1?” said Adelaide. 

“Why should you, my dear?” said the lUerry old fellow. “A 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 51 

good-looking young gentleman’s better company any day than an 
old groom, isn't he, Martha?” 

” Lor’, Addie, my dear,” said Mrs. Millard, ” you mustn’t mind 
John’s fun, it was very lucky indeed that you met the gentleman, 
that mare of yours is so skittish you want some one with you when 
you ride it, I’m sure. But won’t the gentleman step in and take 
lunch?” 

” I’m sure— 1 really can’t — 1 don’t-^” said poor Adelaide, feeling 
very uncomfortable at this turn of affairs. Mr. Millard laughed 
again. Mrs. Millard was already down-stairs instructing the girl to . 
ask the gentleman to come in. 

To Adelaide’s intense dismay he came. 

He gave her a quiet glance as he entered, half embarrassing, half 
reassuring, and, sitting down, plunged at once into conversation 
with Mr. Millard, by that means saving Adelaide the task of intro- 
ducing him, a task she had been dreading ever since she came into 
the house. After thanking Mr. and Mrs. Millard for theii hospital- 
ity and comrnenting 'on the weather, he drew the conversatioAto the- 
surrounding country and its agricultural resources. He talked 
' easily and fluently, and was an excellent listener. Mr. Millard, an . 
agriculturist of note, was struck with the keenness of his remarks^ 
and the extent of his knowledge of the subject; he took his listeners 
wjth him abroad to the laboriously irrigated rice-fields of India, to 
the enormous grain-fields of Iowa, to the vineyards of France and 
the pear orchards of Jersey. He discoursed with Mrs. Millard of 
the virtues of Annatto in cheese, and told her husband of a dressing 
for sheep. His host and hostess were charmed with him, and Ade- 
laide sat in wonder at hearing the man, whom she and her laughing 
sisters had dubbed the ” recluse,” taking the chief part of the talk- 
ing on his own shoulders, and bearing the burden so easily and so 
well. When she rose to go, Mr. Millard was most pressing in hi& 
invitation to Mr.. Galbraith to come again. 

” Now mind,” he said, shaking him cordially by the. hand. ” 1 
shall look for you very soon. I shall be quit of this rheumatic touch 
in a few days, 1 hope, and then I’ll show you round a good English 
dairy farm, and see if any of your foreign ones can beat it. Good- 
by, Addie, my dear, mind you bring Mr. Galbraith again, my love.” 

Poor Adelaide blushed and looked piteously at her companion. 
He was quite calm, and apparently unconscious that anything was 
wrong. ^ 

Mr. Galbraith was very dexterous at assisting a lady to mount, 
and his wrist was much more steady than old Watts’s Miss Adelaide 
thought as she sprung to her seat; after all, what could possibly be 
said? It had been quite an accidental meeting — the result of an ac- 
cident, indeed. Mr. Galbraith was obliged to offer assistance, of 
course he was ; any gentleman must have done so, and how^ coidd she 
have refused him? Impossible. And he 'was a very — what a 
shame of Mr. Millard to have chaffed her so. 

They rode along briskly enough, their horses refreshed by the rest, 
and rapidly approached Dunstalne. Now wliat was Miss Adelaide 
to do? bhe was almost as well known in Dunstalne as in Avonham, 
jet she must call and see that Brownie was all right. It really was^ 


AS AVOl^ FLOWS. 


^2 

very embarrassing having this escort with her. And yet she liked 
it too. 

At DunstaJne Mr. Galbraith found old Watts, who had had, he 
declared, a “ ter’ble job ” to get Brownie to the veterinary surgeon’s, 
and who had only just arrived; he had been going to hire a saddle- 
horse, but had found a farmer going to Avonham, and had got a 
lift from him. Mr. Galbraith rode back to Miss Adelaide with this 
news, and they proceeded on their way to Avonham. It was three 
o’clock m the afternoon when they reached that town, and almost 
tlie first person Miss Adelaide saw in the street was She! man. 

Ho started as thongh a blow had been given to him as he saw who 
her companion was; she rode rapidly past, giving her mare the spur 
lightly, and swiftly crossing the market-place; as they reached her 
lather’s house Mr. Bompas was just entering his office. He, too, 
stared as he saw Galbraith, who again jumped down and assisted the 
young lady to alight. 

“ Oh! papa,” she said, “ pray thank Mr. Galbraith for his kind- 
ness; poor Brownie fell dead lame at Cummer ford,* and Watts had 
to lead him back to Mr. 8iramonds and leave him. He’s coming 
home in a trap. Mr. Galbraith Qame up just after the accident, and 
was good enough to ride to Beytesbury with me. 1 don’t know what 
1 should have done without his help.’' 

Mr. Bompas was most politely grateful. “ My dear sir, I am moat 
sincerely obliged to you, 1 am sure — ah— will you walk in, Mr. Gal- 
braith, and — ah — take a glass of wine?” 

Mr. Galbraith would be most happy it appeared, and Mr. Bompas 
ordered his stable-boy to take the gentleman’s horse home.^ 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Bompas, ushering Mr. Galbraith into the 
Toom where Mrs. Bompas was sitting, having just returned from 
Bath, “ allow me to— ah — present to you Mr. Galbraith — this, sir, is 
Mrs. Bompas — my daughter Louisa — Mr. Galbraith — my daughter 
Lucy— Mr. Galbraith.” 

Polite bows from all parties and much curiosity on the part, of the 
ladies. ^ 

“ Mr. Galbraith, my love, was fortunately— ah — most fortunately 
present to-day at Cummerford at the time when — ah— Brownie fell 
lame — Brownie, my dear, is lame — and he has been good enough to 
— ail — render Adelaide the service — for which 1 am sure I am most 
intensely obliged to him— of— convoying — that, 1 believe, is a term 
more usually applied to merchant vessels and — ah — frigates of war 
—but— let it stand— of convoying her home.” 

“ I’m sure it’s very kind of you, sir,” said Mrs. Bompas, rather 
flustered at having in her drawing-room this quiet young man 
whom her daughters had been calling the “ recluse,” the “ hermit,” 
and various other disparaging names. 

“I’m only too happy at having been of any service to a lady,” 
said he, quietly. 

Whilst the wine was being poured, Miss Adelaide, who had been 
-changing her habit, entered the room and told her mother and sis- 
ters of the kindness of Mr. Galbraith, saying nothing, strange to 
say, of Mr. Millard’s teasing her or of her embarrassment on the 
journey home. Mr. Galbraith drank a glass of wine and then polite- 
ly took his leave, Mr. Bompas f’r companying him to the door; Mrs. 


AS AYOX FLOWS. 53 

Bompas proceeding to the lower regions to see after ” her serv- 
ants, the girls were left alone. 

“What a puss you are, Addie,’! said Louisa; “fancy, Luce, 
hasn’t she luck?” 

“ What sort of a man u the recluse, Addie?’’ said Lucy. 

“A very good sort,! think, Lou; he’s not so very ‘reclusy,* 
when he begins to talk, but he doesn’t say much about himself 
either.” 

“ Fancy your meeting him like that,” said Lucy. “ Lou. I see 
the hand of fate in this,” said the merry girl, clasping her eldest sis- 
ter round the waist and kissing her; “ this young woman is hooked 
at last, lo6k at her blushes.” 

“ Nonsense!” said Adelaide, blushing very much, however. 
“ Well, girls. I’ll tell you something.” 

“Tell! tell!” 

“ Well, he really is very nice; he’s not like any one else I’ve met 
at all.” 

“ How does he differ, dear?” said Louisa, laughing at Lucy, who 
laughed again at her. 

“ He’s more of a Man, I think,” said Adelaide. “ Lucy, what 
on earth are you making that horrid noise for?” 

Luc 5% who had given a most unmelodious bellow, as if the admis- 
sion had hurt her, now shook her head, and in a tone of mock sym- 
pathy, replied, 

“ Oh, Addie, AddH, it’s come at last! You’ve got all the first 
symptoms, my dear, as plain as mumpsl The others will come in 
time, my child, but these are as plain as mumps. ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

FRIENDS FROM FAR WEST. 

Mr. Pinniffer had not broken his word. He had provided for 
Mr. Galbraith and his guests a dinner, to which, he declared with 
becoming pride, the lord lieutenant might sit down; it was being 
cooked under the direction of his wife, and those who knew the Bear 
nnd its special dinners knew whal that meant; he had himself super- 
intended the laying of the table, had looked after the wine with the 
tenderest of care, and now could at last find time to step into the bar 
parlor and fill himself a comforting dram, informing those tew 
liiends who, were there that everything was off his mind and he had 
time for a quiet glass before his guests came. 

Generally speaking, there \fas no one in the bar between five and 
six, for wliich latter hour the dinner was fixed; but this evening, at 
least half-a-dozen, including, of course, Mr. Timothy Rapsey, were 
present. 

No conversation was passing, for no one wished openly to evince 
the curiosity he felt, but each man fixed his eyes on the door, to scan 
everyone who entered. At half -past five, Mr. Galbraith drove up 
the street in one of Mr. Raraty’s dog-carts. By his side was an 
elderly gentleman with a smiling round face and white hair; they 
alighted at the door of the hotel, and the boots extricated from the 
back of the vehicle a portmanteau which he carried into the house. 


54 


AS AYOK PLOWS. 


Mr. Pinniffer met them attlie door and they proceeded at once to 
the room upstairs next to the one in which they were to dine. 

The company in the parlor stared at each other without comment. 

In ten minutes’ time an open carriage in which two gentlemen 
were seated, dro^e to the door ot the Bear. Mr. Pinniffer going to 
meet it received orders to put the horses up for the night. Mr. Gal- 
braith’s room was asked for and Mr. Pinnifter show^ the way, the 
boots again bringing up the rear with some luggage. The driver of 
the carriage was promptly interviewed by Mr. Rapsey , who conveyed 
to his associates the intelligence that the party came f^om Bath, and 
was to return there to-morrow. Excitement was yet at a high pitch 
when there came rattling up the street the omnibus which was tbe 
means by which the good folks of Avonham reached the railway,, 
which was yet fully five miles from re'^ching them'. From this 
alighted two young men, one in a naval uniform, but not an English 
One, as Mr. Pinniffer, who had seen service, whispered, and the other 
the ordinary frock coat of everyday life. More luggage, more ex- 
citement. Next, Mr. Galbraith’s black servant entered the hotel, 
ana, bestowing a grin upon Mr. Pinniffer, passed upstairs. The 
company Could hear the sound of laughing, talking and greeting as 
the door opened. Then a waiter came down in a mighty hurry, re- 
ceived a bottle of bitters from Miss Pinniffer, and disappeared again. 
And now having seen all they were likely to see until the dinner was 
over, having taken in the stupendous fact that there were five gen- 
tlemen, entire strangers to the town, dining with a resident scarcely 
better known than they, the company fell to smoking stolidly. 

Upstairs the dinner proceeded merrily ; the two waiters, and Mr.^ 
Pinniffer who superintended them, attended assiduously to the gen- 
tlemen who seemed to have had their appetites thoroughly sharpened 
by the Marlshire air. Mr. Pinniffer’s heart swelled with pride as he 
listened to the encomiums passed upon the cookery and the wines. 
The conversation was disappointing in the extreme to the worthy 
waiters, who had, like the Bath coachman, been interviewed by Mr. 
Rapsey, before dinner; two of the gentlemen, the party from Bath, 
in fact, had been making a tour of the Continent, and imparted 
freely their impressions and experiences. Mr. Galbraith was uni-^ 
formly addressed as Harry,” but as most people in Avonham knew 
that he had signed the few written notes ^nd checks which f rom^ 
time to time he had sent his tradesmen “ jdL. Galbraith,” that did 
not seem very valuable information to give to any inquirer. And 
once, in the middle of the dinner, when Galbraith had drunk most 
cordially to his friends (as tar as they could make out), the language 
in which his short speech was made was entirely unknown to the 
attendants, as was also that in which his guests had replied; and the 
rest of the talk whilst dinner lasted had been ot things for the most 
part beyond their ken. Hints they got that the party had been long 
known to one another and that they had passed through adventures, 
the recollection ot which caused sometimes laughter and sometimes 
sorrowful murmurs of regret; but as the dinner drew to a close, and 
the wine was freely circulating, the conversation was carried on 
almost entirely in this ” forrin’ tongue,” which the party all spoke, 
and which Mr. Pinniffer was ready to avow was not French, nor 
anything like it. 


55 


• AS AVON FLOWS. , 

At last, the dinner was at an end, the cloth was removed, and the 
wine having been set, the waiters and' Mr. Pinniffer, with many 
1)0 ws, left the room . Cigars were lighted and the decanters were brisk- 
ly passed. Galbraith waited till all were primed and smoking, and 
then turning to his servant, who had entered the room, said— 

“ E(}ward; you’ll take a few cigars, and a bottle of wine, and sit 
In the next room, so that you can see if anyone comes to the door. 
If anyone does, send them down stairs again; it 1 want you 1 will 
Ting the hand-bell you brought.” 

” Very well, sah,”.said the negro, and taking his cigars and wine 
he withdrew.” 

” Now, boys,” said Galbraith, turning to his guests, “ bumpers! 
here’s to the Old Squire Gulch boys, and here’s to the old squire!” 

(Mr. Reuben Matley down-stairs took his pipe from his mouth and 
Tnildly observed that the gentlemen upstairs seemed to be enjoying 
themselves. 

” Drinking the queen’s health,” Mr. Pollwell supposed.) 

” Well, boys,” said the elderly gentleman, who had first driven 
up with Galbraith; “they were good days while they lasted, and we 
didn’t do badly out of them, eh?” 

“ No, squire, thanks to you and your iron rule.” 

“ How many times I’ve thought over the dear old place,” said the 
young naval officer; “ and the squire and you, Harry, and old Pole- 
cat that ran the saloon, and how he got shot that time you fellows 
went over to Cinnabar Mountain, and came back so dead-beat— such 
.a trio of scarecrows.” 

“ Served us right,” said another; “ we haven’t forgotten how you 
took us back, and never shook us, but chummed us in again as if 
nothing had happened; you haven’t ioi gotten that, Harry, have 
you?” 

“No, Fred, and never shall, old fellow; here’s to the stay-at- 
tiomes of Old Squire Gulch!” 

(“ They’re going through the list of toasts proper,” said Mr. Pin- 
mifer, down-stairs, “ that’s the Army and Navy, 1 s’pose.” 

“ Most likely,” said the customers.) 

“ How queer though,” said Fred, “ that we should all be in Eu- 
Tope together, and that you knew it, Harry.” 

“ Precious lucky, 1 think; the sight of* six old gulcheis, and the 
«quir( one of them, is a sight for sore eyes, 1 think. What have we 
all been doing that we haven’t met before?” 

The speaker looked round the table, as he made the inquiry. 
“ Come, squire, make us all confess.” 

“ Ay, ay, well said,” exclaimed the officer. 

“Well then, boys, own up all of you, one at a time. You begin, 
lieutenant. Come, Ralph Derring, tell us how you got those clothes 
on your back.” 

“ Easily told, squire. Whfen we broke camp at the gulch and all 
came East, 1 went home, found the old people glad to see me, and 
more glad perhaps because I’d full pockets to show for empty ones. 
The old man was on the navy boaid. He soon worked me into a 
;ship, and here I am, second of the ‘ Santee.’ ” 


AS AYOK PLOWS.' 


56 

“ Pile gone?” said the squire. 

”!No, said the young fellow, laughing; “pass the dealj. 
squire!” 

“Now, Fred Markham.” 

“ Not much more to say than Rdlph had, squire. Game back to 
England; folks glad to see me; old man found I’d sown the wild 
oats; took me into his business, and here 1 am, at Harry’s invita-' 
tion.” 

“ Then your pile isn’t gone?” 

“ Bigger than ever, squire. 1 wish some of you fellows .looked 
poor!” 

“ Now, Tom Reynolds.” 

“ Faith, I’m comfortable, too. I’d no parents to go to when 1 
left the West, so 1 stayed in the East a while. 1 speculated a bit in 
land, and had tearing luck, and I’m living in Brooklyn, and very 
comfortable.” 

“ Married, Tom?” 

“ Tes, begad 1 am, this two years. She is in Bath this minute. 
Walter and 1 came over to-day together.” 

“Bravo, Tom, good record! Now, Bryceson, where’s your 
wife?” 

“No, no, squire,” said Walter Bryceson. “I’ve kept my piie^ 
and swelled it somewhat, but I’ve not gone so far as Tom as yet. 
I’m down in Essex; my father’s been dead about two years, and 
I’m a squire, like yourself, now.” 

“ Well, Harry, there’s only us two, go on, you first.” 

“Muchas you see, squire. Pile all right and health all right; 
living nere quietly! No wife as yet, and no thoughts of one.” 

“ Strong as ever, Harry?” said Ralph. “ My cats! how you used 
to heft things. ” 

“ Much the same in all ways. 1 fancy, boys, the squire’s going 
to give his experience, and then we want to talk to you — so heave 
ahead, squire.” 

“Bless your hearts, my boys,” said the old fellow, beaming 
round the table, “I’m just the same as ever, only richer for the 
gulch; living quietly in Concord, and just allowing myself a scien- 
tific run over to Europe now and again, as 1 am now. That’s^my 
tale, or experience, as Harry puts it.” 

“ Well, then, boys, as we’re all well.” said impulsive Irish Tom 
Reynolds, “ here’s the old toast— ‘ here’s to us.’ ” 

(“ Wonder what that one is,” said Mr. Rapsey. 

“ Something popular, you may depend upon it,” answered Mr. 
Foil well; “ 1 wonder if they’re a-going to sing?”) 

“ Now, Harry,” said Herring, after the toast had been uproariously 
honored, “ what is your news? What have you* and the squire to 
talk to us about?” 

“ I want to talk about my brother,” said Galbraith, after a short 
pause. 

There was a dead silence, a sympathetic silence, one such as falis^ 
on a circle of friends who know that the next words which break it 
will be fraught with unpleasant meaning, leading to the opening of 


AS^ AVON FLOWS. 57 

^ome hidden wound, the marring of some dream of joy ; then W alter 
Bryceson said— 

Ah! poor Reginald, poor fellow, his was a sad death, old man.” 

” Yes, Harry,” said Fred Markham, ” that woman was the ruin 
of his happiness; she broke up his life; wnat a pity he ever saw 
her!” 

” Ah, indeed,” said hearty Reynolds, ” but, Harry, my boy, you 
weren’t to blame in the aftair. Faith, you were only a boy. Is it 
good to grieve over it now? Why, that’s years back — before we first 
went West with the squire.” 

” 1 know that, Tom,” said Galbraith, “and how you took me 
with you just because I was his brother, and, out of your old friend- 
ship for him, you adopted me, old fellows.” 

“Of course we did, and a bright and promising babe of grace 
you’ve turned out. A credit to his foster-fathers, hasn’t he?” 

“ Fred, Tom, squire, you three were with Reggie when he saw 
this woman first, weren’t your?” asked Galbraith. 

“ Yes,” was the reply. 

“ "Would you know her again if you saw her?” 

“ 1 should know her anywhere,” said Fred. 

“ I fancy 1 should too,” said the squire. 

“ I’m not very confident about it,” observed Tom, “ but I think 1 
should recognize her. Bedad, she was a fine woman.” 

“ Walter and Ralph, you never saw her, did you?” 

“"Nol” 

“ You heard the tale of her and Reginald?” 

“Yes, partly; you know it was always a subject we hesitated to 
touch on.” 

“ Well, then,T’ll tell it you again, that you may really know the 
facts of it, and after that 1 want you to hear what the squire has tp 
say.” 

“ You must know that 1 have never seen my brother’s wife; that’s 
necessary in the first place. Reginald and 1 are sons of the same 
mother, but Reginald’s father died when he was quite a child, and 
mother married again. My father was never particularly fond of 
either of us, that 1 could see; but he was anything but kind to 
Reginald. That was the reason of his going away from home; an 
uncle took care of him, and, when he died, left him a small income, 
about £200 a-year. Of courso Reginald was under age, and so he 
<jame home for a bit, and my father managed his money. Well, 
they couldn’t agree, and one day after a terrible row Reginald de- 
clared he would stay at home no longer; he was eighteen years old, 
and 1 was only twelve then. Mother was in delicate health, or 1 be- 
lieve Reginald would have gone before. At any rate, go he did, and 
•of course America was his destination. When he had been there 
three years, and 1 was only fifteen, mother died, and 1 was left at 
home with father. 1 believe he was fond of me in his way, but he 
was a reserved kind of man, and whatever he might have felt he 
kept pretty much to himself. My youthful days at home were not 
my happiest ones, and 1 was always glad enough to get back to 
fagging at Rugby, 1 can tell you. Reginald was twenty- one when 
he made his appearance at home to clairn the money his uncle had 
left him, and was a fine, manly- looking fellow. Father and he were 


58 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


no more affable to one another than usual, and although the money 
was scrupulously accounted tor, and father had really managed the 
affair in the best possible way for Reginald, yet there was a row over 
the settlement, as indeed there was over almost all that passed be- 
tween those two. It was then that Reginald conceived the idea of 
taking me over to America with him. 1 had been grumbling to 
him one day about some fancied wrongs in home-life, and eagerly 
accepted his offer. W e left home on a visit to an aunt, my mother ’s 
sister. We did not go there, but went to Liverpool, and before 
father knew that we had not paid our visit we were three parts of 
the way across. Well, when we got there, Reginald decided to put 
me to school, and 1 went first to a tutor’s, and then, as you know, 
Walter, to Yale, where we were class-mates.” 

‘'We were, for three j^ears,” said Bryceson. 

“It wa^ during that time that Reginald went West. It was there- 
he met this woman, w^ho was singing at a theater in St. Louis. He 
was fascinated with her, and married her: she was, as some of you 
know, a remarkably handsome woman.” 

“ She was, indeed,” said the squire, “ and poor Rieginald was very 
fond of her, and she of him at first, apparently.” 

“ Well, you know how she treated him: how she made him jeal- 
ous with other men, how she ref used to come East, how her tantrums 
drove him nearly wild, and how, one time when he had run East to 
see me one vacation, she left him forever, and drove him to madness 
and death.” 

The speaker’s voice trembled, and he paused and drank some wino 
before resuming, 

“ 1 shall never forget how Reginald took the news, how he rushed 
away from me — it w^as the last time 1 ever saw him — quite frantic. 
You know the rest of the tale even better than 1, for 1 did not know 
you then, and had never set eyes on Constance— a pretty name, for- 
sooth— in my life. ” 

“ Well, what we know of the matter,” said Fred Markham, “ is 
just this. After Reginald Wilding had gone East to see you, this 
woman, as you say, left with a fellow from New York, an engineer. 
Reginald was of course told of it by one of us. We’d no idea of 
anything wrong until the mischief was all done. He came back 
quite like a madman, refused all offers of help, but traced the run- 
away couple to Memphis and Baton Rouge, There, by all accounts^ 
he met them; and there, as we learned afterward, was shot by the^ 
fellow who had robbed him of his wife, and died in a few days^ de- 
lirious and unknown. ” 

“ That’s right, Fred,” said Tom Reynolds, “ we both tried all we 
knew to get hold of the blackguard and have a shot at him, but he 
got away to New Orleans, and from there to Havana, as tar as we 
could make out, and we never set eyes on either of them— bad luck 
to them.” 

“ But, Harry,” said Ralph Herring, “ why is it, old fellow, that 
you bring this up again? Ho you remember that when you came 
"West to St. Louis, where we all were,, and whence we had intended 
starting for Colorado with poor Reginald before this affair happened^ 
it was agreed after we had, as Tom says, adopted you, that we 
shouldn’t let you brood over these matters?” 


59 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 

I’ll answer that,” said the squire, breaking in before Galbraith 
had time to reply. ” The reason is one that Harry can hardly give 
you. This is my hand. Harry brought this up here because 1 asked 
him to, and doesn’t himself know the reason of my request. Tom 
and Fred, you went down to Baton Rouge after Reginald Wilding?” 

“We did.” 

“ Wnere did he die?” 

“ In the Central Infirmary there, raving mad and shot through the 
chest.” 

“ You’re wrong, my boys — sit still, Harry— Reginald Wilding is 
alive. He has been under my care in Glenbrook Private Asylum for 
tour months past, and if you see him— and see him you will, 1 
know, as soon as you can get to him— I’ll stake my professional 
Teputation that he will be a sane man ten days after you meet.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Timothy Rapsey, taking his pipe out of his 
mouth and looking round for corroboration, “ Mr. Galbraith’s one 
of the very quietest gentlemen I’ve ever come across, but his friends 
nre making up for him to-night, I’m blest it they ain’t. There’s 
the bell, Mr. Pinnifiier, again. They’re not going to.spare the wine 
cither, it seems. Ah, there’s nothing like youth after all; it’s Ihe 
time for diversion. Give me another little drop of Hollands, miss. 
We may just as well enjoy ourselves down-stairs as up, for all 1 can 
see.” 


CHAPTER Yin. 

CANVASSING. 

“ How many ’lections have you seen in Avonham, in your time, 
father?” said Ex-Mayor KilletC grazier and butcher, taking his clay 
pipe from his mouth and lifting a healthy-looking brown jug thereto. ^ 
The pair were seated in the little summer-house which had been/ 
the work of the old man in the first summer after his retirement - 
from his flourishing business in favor of his son. There was no 
more affectionate and dutiful son in the country-side than the brawny 
Hercules who had succeeded him ; and no one paid him more defer- 
ence. The old man was the oracle of the neighborhood, and the son 
sat at his feet as at those of another Gamaliel. It was acknowledged 
that no one could compete witli the old Mas’r Killett in local lore, 
nnd the evening of his life was spent in telling the younger genera- 
1 lions around him what had passed and happened in Marlshire in its 
morning. He now in turn removed his pipe, and, taking a draught 
from his own especial brown jug, conveniently placed at his elbow 
and filled with his son's best home-brewed, proceeded to answer his 
question. / 

How when Mas’i Killett or any other Marlshire oracle spoke of 
the days of yore in reply to any query put, a certain manual and 
extension exercise was gone through with time- honored solemnity. 
First, the capacious waistcoat was slowly pulled down until its 
wrinkles had well-nigh disappeared, then the disengaged hand 
the hand which held neither pipe nor tankard) was rubbed slowly 
and softly up and down the side of the leg a few times; after that 
the body was inclined, forward, and the pipe stem pointed to the in- 


60 AS AYOK I'LOWS. 

ter^oeutor (if there Were no pipe present the fore-finger perfortned 
its office), and, lastly, the rubbing hand stopped and rested on the 
point of the knee, emphasizing the answer by a series of taps or 
slaps, according to whether the subject were being calmly or ex 
citedly discussed — and the first word of the reply was generally 
“ whoy!” This was the cabalistic forerunner of the speech of the 
average Marlshire oracle. 

There were great advantages in this. In the first place, you got 
your reply diplomatically, and therefore trustworthily. Having 
surrounded the •desired information with all the ancient ceremony 
and pomp due to its merit, no Marlshire sage would think for a mo- 
ment of advancing anything but the best at his command. Then^, 
again, it was not a hasty answer, but one which was being painfully 
and carefully revolved in the mind whilst the hands were gracefully 
preparing the way for it. Lastly, it precluded heat and anger, and 
showed that your question was respected as it was expected the reply 
would be. All the appropriate maneuvers having been performed 
by old Mas’r Killet, and the preliminary “ whoy,*’ having been pro- 
duced, he answered his questioning son. 

“Not more than about a five, my son; Sir Headingly (Mr. H. Canu 
he were when he first come here), he’ve sat here tor eighteen year, 
and atoie him was Mr. Heeid, him as is Sir John now, a notable old 
man he must be, and lives somewheres abroad. Thirty-four year ho 
sat for Avonham. There was Mr. Mathews sat with him till the 
Great Bill of *32. There was never any ’lection in those days— the 
seat was the surest there was anywhere. A real fine couple of gen- 
tlemen were Sir John and Mr. Mathews. Sir John never gave up 
knee-breeches let who would. Mr. Mathews was master of the 
hounds a many years, and yoii must remember both of them well — 
yes, surely you do. , 

“ Why, surely, father. I mind Mr. Mathews’s funeral as if ’twas 
only yesterday. Why, Sir John was member then, and it was be- 
fore Sir Headingly sat here at all.” 

“ To be sure, my son, to be sure it was. Well, now, before Sir 
John first came, there was a lord sat here, a fine young fellow he 
was, and was shot somewhere close to London by one as cheated him 
at cards, such things young blood will.do; six years he sat, and came 
in the first of the eighteen hundi’eds ; before him was a very great 
general that fought the' Americans in his time, likewise the French, 
at that great rock Gibberalter. One arm he had only, and great 
doings there was at his ’lection. 1 was but a lad, but 1 remember 
it well. There was ja banker gentleman who was sitting member 
here then, and when the ’lection time came, this General Handred 
he came down and beat him. Money was spent in those times, and 
long purses were a snare unto many. And that’s all the ’lection 
doings that’s been in Avonham this eight- and-sixty years, as many 
men could testify it so be as they were alive lo do so. ” 

“ ’Tis surely seldom a town does have so few,” said the son, re- 
flecti vely. 

“ Yes,” said the old man, “ and ’twill put many good men into a 
quandary now how to vote to save giving ofiense.” 

“ ’Twill that, father. 1 wish the ’lection were further; we‘ve 
been living quiet and neighborly for years, and had nothin’ to come 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


61 


in between frieods ’cept maybe a bit o’ market-day trading that 
seemed to pinch one side now and again. But lor’, that was soon 
settled and made up, and ’twasn’t like these political disputes. Why^ 
dear me, Mi. Arto and John Rann were quite at words in the shop, 
yesterday morning when they were waiting. Mr. Rann he’s ail for 
a change, and he’s working tor Mr. Boldham. Mr. Arto he’s against 
new measures, and don’t seem to lay much heart to the ’lection, 
that’s where Sir Headingly’s side are making a mistake, 1 reckon. 
Well, they were quite sharp over it. Mr. Arto says he’s none for^ 
upsetting a town this way. ‘ Corn,’ he says, * is my ockipation and 
oats is my change of method.’ Out comes Mr. Rann with what 1 
must say seemed rather rough, and said as that was the sort of choice 
and change a donkey or an unreasoning dumb horse would make. 
And really, lather, without taking on me to measure Mr John 
Rann’s words and meanings, 1 believe he only put the horse in to 
save Mr. Arto being too raw over the donkey. There was going to 
be words over it 1 could see, only 1 iiurried cutting Rann’s steak and 
drawed Mr. Arto off on to a saddle of mutton and saved trouble so. ” 
And the good-hearted giant shook his head sadly as he thought of 
the division in the town. ' 

He was not the only inhabitant who regretted the existing state of 
things; the younger men of the town delighted in the contest, and 
went heart and soul into the fray for their respective sides, but the 
seniors shook their heads. Among them Sir Headingly Cann had a 
perceptible majority, although some like Doctor Mompesson were 
in favor of a younger and more energetic man. There was no burn- 
ing question of the day imported inta the election at Avonham as 
was the case with larger constituencies. Mr. Boldham made the 
Railway Bill his trump card, and twitted his rival with having so 
long delaj^ed bringing it forward. Sir Headingly again promised 
the Bill and rested his claim on his long services, on his Church and 
State proclivities, and on his personal influence in the town. , 
To say truth, the old man had a task before him which was not 
only uncongenial but repugnant to him. For eighteen years his 
annual address had been for him only a small part of a connection 
which long use had made very pleasant. To reply for the House of 
Commons after the great local banquets, to preside at the Agricul- 
tural and Horticultural Show dinners, to see his name as patron or 
president of almost all the societies or associations in that part of the 
county had led him gradually to adopt toward the town a paternal, 
and protecting air which was eminently pleasing to him and not at 
all resented by Avonham. So that now when he came to face a 
meeting only half sympathetic with him, when he was “ heckled 
by suddenly sprung- up local politicians, and when his bland and con- 
ciliatory responses were stigmatized as “ blarney ” and “soft soap,” 
the old man, who was the soul of honor and tenacious of it to a 
degree, felt almost inclined to clicke at what he called the “ un. 
thankful depravity ” of his constituents. Nevertheless, the very 
meekness with which he bore himself was one of his strongest recom- - 
mendations. Many an Avonl]fem elector, who had felt aggrieved that 
the Railway Bill had not been obtained for the town and who had 
made up his mind to show Sir Headingly that he individually would 
submit to no further delay, came away from the meeting fully set- 


62 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


tling in his own mind that after all it was a shame to desert the old 
mat], and that he for one would stand hy him once more. 

Much of Sir Headingly’s labor and anxiety was taken off his hands 
by his nephew. For no one in Avonham recognized more clearly 
than this young fellow the exact position of parties, and no one was 
more keenly alive to his own interests in the matter. Defeat for Sir 
Headingly meant just such a golden chance for Boldham and Shel- 
man after him as his chance had been considered for the last few 
years. He saw clearly that if his uncle lost this seat his own political 
career would receive a rough check from which it would not readily 
. recover. His uncle would be so grieved at the loss of the seat that 
lie would doubtless at once sever all connection with the town, and 
retire altogether from political life. Where then would be his 
chance of stepping into the shoes which he had airways considered 
such an easy fit for him? Hone, and nothing left for it but either 
to wait a new election and fight*Avonham on his own account, or to 
seek another constituency under the wing of one of his uncle’s 
political friends. Would he get another chance? Not very likely, 
lor he was looked upon as being sure to retain Avonham for the 
party after his uncle’s career was finished, and if this opportunity 
were allowed to slip, iarewell to political patronage for some time to 
come. 

On the other hand, there was more attached to the contest than 
the mere seat victory. Holding the seat against the growing power 
and the fierce attacks of the other parly would be rewarded without 
doubt. The old man had received the baronetcy for conciliation, 
might not the young one expect nobility tor successful resistance 
after his uncle was gone? He left no stone unturned to insure suc- 
cess, Jie was more affable than ever; even political opponents were 
not made aware of the slightest change of feeling. The younger 
politicians were keenly argued with, but the argument was never al- 
I'jw^ to get to the length of a dispute; there was no fault to be 
found with him, and he trankly told the “ Boldhamites, ” as his 
uncle’s opponents were called, that he was glad that the contest had 
occurred, as it gave him an opportunity of showing his real feelings 
toward all in Avonham, political friend and political foe alike. 

Alfred Shelman came out of the ordeal very much less skillfully 
than his rival. Nevpr accustomed to conciliate, by nature rather 
aggressive than yielding, with a hasty temper under scarcely any 
control, and with an ill-disguised contempt for the people whom he 
had to visit and fraternize with, he compared most unfavorably 
with the suave and courteous Rivers. Xf the baronet were helped 
by his nephew, the banker was rather hampered by this, although 
Shelman worked hard and energetically in his way, and took the 
greatest possible interest in the conflict. 

The Pariahs whom we mentioned before were the ones who ex- 
tracted the most enjoyment out of the turmoil. Here was a legitimate 
chance for a fling at respectability at last. The heavy fathers of the 
town, the sobersides, were set b}^ the ears, the youthful spirits had 
their turn. True, most of them had no votes, but their fathers and 
uncles had; their crusade could be carried into every household. 
Mr. Pinniffer and the Bear Hotel did not care over much for the 
company of these young men, but the Blues of them mustered at 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 63 ' 

the Great George, and the Aellows at the Woolpack, and from these 
two strongholds the warfare was waged. - 

Of course the first thing to be done was to vocalize the contest^ 
so a soaring genius at the Great George decided. Having collected 
a chorus of boys from the Church schools and elsewhere, and en- 
listed them on the Blue side, he supplied them with a soul-stirring^ 
election song, which went to the popular tune of the day, so that 
the youngsters, who entered' hugely into the fun of the thing and 
were made bold by the unwonted license of the whole surroundings, 
made the side streets, the smaller lanes and the very church-yard 
itself echo with their chant: 

“ Vote, boys, do, 

For the old true blue ; 

Blue is the color of the sky ; 

So vote every man 
.For Sir ’Edin’ly Cann, 

And we’ll make old Boldy fly.” 

This, of course, was felt by the Woolpack contingent to be a 
political movement of very deep significance, and one to which a 
counter mine must he sprung; after deep cogitation and much 
poetical outpouring, another song was evolved Irom the inner con- 
sciousness of the Yellow bard, and some Yellow boys having been 
enlisted and duly trained, the town was made hideous with another 
song. The same tune was adopted, it being considered that a 
monopoly was to be denied the Blues, as it was an air well known 
to both parties alike. So the Yellow side sung: 

“ Cann, Cann, Cann, 

Will never be the man. 

And the Tories ’ll say he sold ’em ; 

And all the silly Blues 

Will be shaking in their shoes, ^ 

When we bring in Mister Boldham.” 

This second eftort was voted by the Blue part weak, and the sing- 
ing boys complained that the extra feet of verse fitted the tune but 
ill, and that the Blue boys had the advantage. A few deserted and 
sung the orginal chant, and altogether the Yellow party had the. 
worse of the poetry. The Y^ellow poet on being appealed to to 
remedy this detect waxed wi^oth, declared that his version was in- 
finitely superior to the other, that a redundance of feet was a posi- 
tive advantage as giving the song more “ go,” and finally threatened 
to transport his genius and efforts bodily to the Great George, it he 
were bothered any more about it. His loss would have been such a 
dire calamity to the party that the bard was suffered to rest in peace, 
Mr. Sennett, the mayor, had no enviable position; he, of course,, 
in virtue of his office, held the post of returning officer, and he heart- 
ily wished the whole business at the bottom of the Avon. The duty 
was excited over it. Wolstenhomle and Hoppener Pye were stanch 
supporters of Sir Headingly. Dr. Mompesson and Mr. Follwelb on 
the other hand, were just as keen for Mr. Boldham, and the oppo- 
sition of Mr. Rann (yellow) and Mr. Beadlemore Arto (blue) was, a& 
we have seen, pronounced and spirited. So that the club was not 
so harmonious as usual, and Mr. Sennett was not the only member 
who sighed for peace. Mr. Bompas, Mr. Raraty, quiet Reuben Mat- 


M AS AVOK FLOWS. 

|ey, ah hated the fuss and pother which had taken possession of the 
town, and wished the business well over. But in others the feeling 
'Was not so pacific. John Rann was in his glory; Barnabas Chickle- 
holt and he were political cronies, and from Rann’s office steps held 
forth to all comers. Benjamin Pollimoy brought all the vast expe- 
rience of a traveler to bear upon the election, and loudly upheld the 
Crown, the living wearer of which it had been his privilege to be- 
hold; and Timothy Rapsey, in his eagerness to know what was be- 
ing done by both sides, ran some risk of being trusted by neither. 
iSo the contest went on, with both sides confident of success, and 
each party narrowly watching the other and ready to countercheck 
all movements which seemed likely to lead to victory. 

It was on one of the evenings when there was no meeting of his 
uncle’s supporters, and after a day’s patient canvassing of the elect- 
ors, that Walter Rivers, after standing for a few minutes at the church- 
yard gate, looking somewhat wearied and bored, turned his steps 
across the church yard path, and descending the steps at the end, 
reached the gates of T*riory House. Here he halted, and stood for 
a minute as it debating some question with himself, and then, hav- 
ing apparently made up his mind wdth a certain amount of effort, 
rang the bell and was admitted. Ih a few minutes Mrs. Stanhope 
came into the room where he was standing, and greeted him 
cordially. 

" Have you found your way here, at last? Where is Sir Head- 
ingly? 1 haven’t seen either of you once, ever since this worrying 
election work began; how is your uncle?” 

” Fairly well, considering the worry he has gone through; you 
know he feels very much aggrieved at having any opposition to 
iiim.” 

” Didn’t 5^ou expect any?” 

“ 1 did, certainly. 1 foresaw that Dunstalne was likely, sooner 
or later, to influence Avonham politics; bull never liked to let uncle 
think so. It w^ould only have worried him, and I had some idea 
that if a dissolution came this year — ” and he paused. 

” That he would resign the seat to you; you mean that?” 

Yes, 1 do; it has alw^ays been understood between us that it was 
to be so, and nothing but the opposition of Boldham has made uncle 
put up again.” 

Do you think you would have been sure of your seat?” 

I think so. Boldham might have opposed me, or Shelman, but 
1 fancy 1 could hold my own" against either of them, backed up, of 
course, by uncle's influence and help.” 

“ You are sorry, of course, that that didn’t happen?” 

“ Yes, of course, and a good deal disappointed; you know that 1 
have ambitions, and 1 was in hopes of being able at once to begin 
Parliamentary life; yes, I am certainly sorry that things have turned 
out so. ” 

Mrs. Stanhope looked very kindly on this good-looking young 
politician. It is not unpleasant to a handsome woman to console a 
man for disappointment. 

” It is a pity,” she replied, with a little sigh; “ 1 am very sorry. 

I was in hopes, myself, that you would have the seat.” 


AS ATOMS’ FLOWS. 65 

'“lam quite consoled if yo^ are sorry,” he said. ** 1 am glad 
you take an interest in my career.” 

“ An interest? Of course I do— you know that; I’ve told you 
that before. 1 hope lo see you a Member of Parliament in another 
year; it would be ungracious not to be interested in an old friend.” 

“ Boldham is an old friend too,” said he, laughing. 

“ Y(s, It’s the worst of these elections, they come in between peo- 
ple in several ways; I’m ajmost thankful! haven’t a vote; indeed I 
am quite glad; I’m sure 1 shouldn’t know what to do with it; 1 
should refuse to vote at all, 1 think. Are you and Mr. Shelman 
iiiendly?” 

” Oh, so so, we met soon after the business began and agreed that 
no private feeling should be changed by it, but of course in the heat 
of the contest one sometimes loses sight of that, and we were never 
xevy attached to each other, 1 believe.” 

She slightly colored, she had an idea that Rivers had some reason 
for the remark, founded on what had passed between them at the 
Priory House on the day of the bishop’s visit. 

He* saw the flush and saw his chance as well. In the low, earnest 
tones, which he knew how to use so effectively, he led the conversa- 
tion to his uncle, thence to that wish of his which we have heard 
expressed before; he pleaded earnestly and skillfully, for himself, 
urging his suit with modesty and warmth; she could not but be 
^flattered, the consciousness of triumph was strong upon her. Here 
she had the two foremost young men of her little world at her feet, 
and he, the handsomer ^nd more eligible of the two, was asking her 
to be his wife. She had expected it; she had guessed that under 
the joking words of the interview at the party lay a deeper meaning, 
-and she had made up her mind what her answer should be when 
the question came. Yes— she would marry this man, she would 
help him in the great world of Loudon, he was talented, ambitious, 
.and wealthy, so was she: they would be somebodies on a greater scale-'^ 
than in this little quiet country town; a bright career lay open to 
them, and the ball was at their feet. 

So Rivers found his task an easy one. She accepted him with dig- 
nity and the grace that was peculiarly her own; there was something 
almost protecting in her manner: she seemed to devote herself to 
him as a guardian and a help. There was a calm yielding of herself 
to him, as of a strong nature unbending itself and dedicating itself 
to the service of a weaker one. He was very grateful; his joy was 
unbounded. He had won a great prize here; he would keep it and 
cherish it for its own sake and his. 

The moon was shining brightly when he took his leave, and 
walked down the quiet street and up the church-yaid steps to where 
the white stones watched over the graves of Avonham’s dead, ft 
was a night of peace, and he was just in the mood to take in all its 
beauties. A hard day’s work had been succeeded by an evening of 
inexpressible calm and joy, and his cup of content was full. Only 
let the election go right and all would be well with him. Wealth, 
bonors, rewards were all before him ; there seemed no turn of fort- 
une’s wheel which he had yet to desire. He passed down the High: 
Street of the town, exchanging cheery good- nights to those tew 
townsfolk yet in the street, and reached his uncle’s house. Hq 
8 


66 


AS AYON FLOWS. 


would tell him the good news before he slept. The old-man had 
had a wearying day, he would cheer him with his tidings and share 
his joy with him. It did cheer Sir Headingly greatly. It was touch- 
ing to see how the old man rejoiced in the young one's love and 
happiness. The cares of the election were forgotten, and the two 

- talked tar into the night of the fortune that had fallen to Walter. 

^ “1 shall see her to-morrow morning," were the baronet's parting^ 

I words, " and welcome her as I would a daughter; you're a lucky 
^ fellow, Walter, and you deserve to be, for you have always been a 
* good boy to me. Good-night, my dear boy, God bless you." 

f She stood long at the window alter he had gone, and watched the 
moon silvering the little stream, that ran to feed the river at the town 

- bridge, and as she turned away she murmured — 

" Perfectly happy, but for the past— perfectly— and the past seems^ 
far away. There have been years of sorrow and years of doing 
V good. Surely they will atone. 1 will forget the past ; there is a future 
coming now I" 


) CHAPTER IX. 

^ MR. BOMPAS NOTICES MANY THINGS. 

Mr. Abel Bompas had very little of Mr. Timothy Rapsey's curi- 
■ osity in his composition. He liked, of course, to know what was 
. going on around him, and took care to keep himself posted in the 
1 affairs of the town, but there was nothing obtrusive in the man. 
^ He would chirp (if so venerable an old bird might with propriety be 
; said to chirp) at his family table over the small-talk of hismeighbcfirs, 
would retail what he had heard in the street, or at the club, and 
’ would increase his store of news from the gatherings of Mrs. Bom^ 

- pas, who, as most plump, amiable, well-preserved matrons do, dearly 
.. loved a bit of gossip with a neighbor over the fragrant ISouchong. 

This was the extent of Mr. Bompas 's shaie in the chatter and scan- 
dal of Avonham. The confidential nature of much of his business 
demanded a reticence, which had by degrees become customary, 
^ and the really good heart of the pompous, but kindly old gentleman 
I shut out from his nature that spice of malice, which is indispensa- 
ble to your well-regulated male town-gossip. So it came to pass that 
] Mr. Bompas at this stage of our tale, being much exercised In mind 
; respecting certain occurrences taking place under his eyes, did shut 
himself up within himself, and ceasing to retail to others any of the 
• observations which he took by wholesale, gave his mind solely to 
taking very particular notice of certain events happening all round 
him. 

About the election Mr. Bompas was quite easy; he had been duly 
waited on by both candidates in person, and had frankly, and at 
once, declined to have anything to do with the matter at all. He 
' would vote for neither party, would attend no meetings, would have' 

- neither lot nor part in it. Never a politician at heart, the very re- 
verse of a noisy man, he left the struggle to those who were inter* 
ested in it, and went on his own way. 

But Mr. Bompas had matters nearer his owm household to attend 


AS AYOK FLOWS, 


67 

to, and circumstances affecting the well-being of his own household 
to watch; and, first among these matters, was the conduct of his 
articled pupil, Mr. Adolphus Carter. 

From time immemorial it has been accepted as a perfectly satis- 
factory and orthodox state of things that the ’prentice, articled 
pupil, or probationer of any merchant, craftsman, or professional 
man possessing any daughter with good looks as a portion of her 
endowment, shall fall in love with the said daughter. "Whether the 
f passion he reqirited or not has nothing whatever to do with it; the 
young man must bow to his fate and the young lad^ likes it— ex- 
pects it— looks tor it as a perquisite and a right. She may not return 
the soft feeling, she may not definitely accept the proffered devotion, 
but she would most assuredly feel that the foundations of apprentice- 
ship were shaken to their center, and that the fountains of the great 
deep of commerce were broken up it she did not receive it. Mr. 
Adolphus Carter had, of course, followed orthodoxy as befitted the 
3on of a county parson, and had even exceeded the prescribed limits 
of passion, for, whereas, it is undoubtedly correct to attach one’s self 
to one fair' object in a family, Mr. Carter had allowed his tender 
heart to become enmeshed in the toils of all three of his master’s 
daughters. Until lately this had been a position of great comfort 
to him, and he complacently basked in the smiles of the Misses 
Bompas, and was not in the least averse to being gently rallied by 
his companions upon the state of his heart. When all the country- 
side youth were sighing for the fair ones, when schemes for gaining 
brief entrance into the private apartments of the house of the worthy 
auctioneer were laid with a depth and circumstantiality befitting a 
political plot, how blessed was the lot of the fortunate youth who 
met the charmers every day, who was frequently partaker of the 
^jheertul tea and the more jovial supper, and who stood well enough 
in his principal’s graces to be able to indulge the not unreasonable 
hope that he might effect in time a double partnership, and enter 
the business and the family at the same time. Which of the ladies 
he would honor he had not yet made up his mind, but that was a 
matter which could be decided upon at leisure or perhaps might be 
better left to accident to determine. 

Mr. Adolphus had, therefore, resented as a personal injury to him- 
self the escort, which has been described in a former chapter, and 
the face and form of Mr. Galbraith were odious to him. His nerves 
had been roughly shaken by their first interview ; he had vowed venge- 
ance then, biit his wrath bad somewhat subsided until the day of 
• the ride to Beytesbury, which had caused it to burst forth again with 
Increased fury. He grinned savagely at Galbraith when he saw him 
“ in the street, and hinted mysteriously to his friends of a dark and 
dreadful fate overshadowing some one whom he hated, finding in 
this that subtle relief which little men and little minds feel in vent- 
ing their spite on some absent and unconscious person. But alter 
the dinner at the Bear his enemy had become insupportable; he 
could stand him no longer, his very life ^^as imbittered, and made 
a burden to him; not alone through his first foe, but through his 
friend. 

And this friend was also the cause of much heavy pondering to 
Jlr. Carter’s employer. 


68 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


'When Mr. Galbraith’s guests had consumed Mr. Pinniffer’s excel- 
lent dinner, and had tried and approved of the luxurious feather 
beds which were the pride of his worthy spouse, and had eaten a 
hearty breakfast and seen the lions of Avonham, which were few,, 
they had driven away from the town in the highest spirits, bearing 
with them their host who went to see them all off. Two of the parly 
who were going to Bath by road, parted from the rest at the end of 
the town and the remainder proceeded to the railway, being driven 
by Mr. Galbraith himself in Mr. Raraty’s dog-cart; but only two of 
the occupants of that vehicle quitted Marlshire at that time, for Mr. 
Galbraith, and a young friend whom he addressed as Walter, re- 
turned to Mr. Raraty’s stables with the trap. The negro Edward had 
moved a portmanteau to the Coombes, and the Avonham carrier^ 
had, in a few days, carried a portly looking and weighty trunk there 
from the railway. This trunk had at once come under the scrutiny^ 
of Mr. Rapsey, who announced that the gentleman staying with Mr. 
Galbraith was a certain Walter Bryceson, Esq., and Mrs. Pinniffer 
and Miss Pinniffer, her rosj^-cheeked daughter, declared that he was 
as handsome a looking young man as any one might wish to see;, 
and Mr. Pinniffer gave it as his opinion that Mr. Galbraith was a 
quiet gent, a little too quiet for a young gent, and that if there was 
a gent as was calculated to Wake a gent up a little this one seemed 
the very gent to do it. 

Indeed, Mr. Walter Bryceson, having seen that he was in a good- 
ly land, proceeded to make the best of it, and amused himself greatly 
with the, town and its inhabitants; he would stroll through the 
market-place, cigar in mouth, and chat to the farmers; he speedily 
knew the face of every young lady who assisted in the commerce of 
the town, from Miss Pinniffer, at the Bear, to the milliner’s ap- 
prentices at the bridge foot, and such an admirer of the fair sex was, 
it may be sure, not long in discovering the pretty faces and graceful 
shapes of the acknowledged belles of the town. Mr. Carter was ag- 
onized to find that Mr. Bryceson had obtained an introduction to Mr. 
jBompas, and was high in the good graces of his employer’s help- 
meet. So his brow grew darker than ever, he puzzled his friends 
by hints still more obscure and deadly, and startled Mr. Bompas 
greatly at times by a snappishness and abruptness which greatly 
discomposed him. 

Mr. Bompas also noticed about this time that Miss Adelaide was 
an the habit of blushing in the rosiest manner whenever Mr. Gal- 
braith’s name was mentioned, and he also made the discovery that 
the name was mentioned very frequently by the young lady’s sisters, 
apparently with the intention of bringing* about that pleasing state; 
of confusion; and finally the good father made up his mind that 
something was amiss between his family and Mr. Shelman, and. 
that, in some inscrutable manner, Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Bryceson 
were concerned in tliis matter also. 

One evening, as the worthy old fellow was jogging homeward, 
after a sale at an outlying village, filled with that calm which comes 
of a good day’s work well done, he overtook on the road his old 
friend and crony, Mr. Sennett. Mr. Bompas pulled up and offered 
bis friend a lift, which was accepted. 


AS AVO^T FLOWS. 69 

“ Not sorry to find a friend driving homeward/' said Mi. Sen- 
nett, as he climbed to his place. 

1 am returning from Mr. Poysener's sale/’ said Bompas^ 

** Ah, hat good sale?” 

“ Moderately so, mo-de-rately so, Sennett. Any news?” 

** No, none particular; the nomination, yon know, of course, takes^ 
place on Monda}^” 

“ I shall be most remarkably pleased when the contest, which I 
can only regard as a most untor-tu-nate occurrence,” said Mr. Bom- 
pas, “ is all over,” 

“Yes,” said his friend, ” you won’t be better pleased than 1 
shall.” 

“ 1 really think,” said Bompas, “ that 1 shall send Mrs. Bompas 
and the girls down to Weymouth, in order that Ihey may be away 
from the consequent turmoil and excitement.” 

“ Good plan. Are you going to stop at Beytesbury? 1 want to 
say half a word to Millard it you are.” 

“ 1 can easily do so; Millard has just recovered from his last at- 
tack, and 1 should like to see him.” 

Mr. Millard welcomed his friends heartily, and they were soon dis- 
cussing the contents of a cobw ebbed and tenderly-handled bottle 
which he brought reverently from some dark nook. Mr. Sennett’s 
errand done, a general chat followed, in which, of course, the elec- 
tion was the principal but not the all-absorbing topic. 

“ That was a smart young fellow that Addie brought over here 
with her the other day,” said the host, at last. 

“ He is a young man of very pleasing and quiet manners,” saiii 
Mr. Bompas, 

” Anything up between him and Addie, Bompas?” 

** My dear sir!” said Mr. Bompas, holding up his hands in sur- 
prise, ” what ever induced you to imagine that?” 

“Imagine it,” said Millard; “come, Bompas, you know what 
our fathers used to think about us when we were young, and went 
riding about the country with our present wives — what do you say,, 
Sennett?” 

“ Ah, you see, you have the advantage over me, Millard; we 
bachelors—” 

“Don’t know anything about it, of course, of course. Well^ 
Bompas, judging from what 1 saw of the spark; my pretty god- 
daughter might do far worse. That young fellow has his head 
screwed on the right way. Gad, he could teach some of us some- 
thing in farming even, 1 think.” 

“But, ray dear Millard,” began Mr. Bompas, “1 assure you I 
know of nothing—” 

“Not yet, of course,” said the hearty old fellow; “well, well,^ 
you’ll know in time. By the bye, Sennett, talking of young people 
and their settling in life, young Shelman is at me to sell him some 
of my land backing on to the river, the Downholmes — you know/®" 

“Yes.” 

“ He wants to build and settle down,” he says. “ Do you know, 
Bompas, 1 canT quite make that young fellow out. As an old friend 
1 may tell you in confidence, and Sennett here won’t say anything^ 
1 know, 1 once had a very great idea that there was something be- 


AS AYOI^ FLOWS, 


fO 

tween Kim and one of your girls, 1 couldn’t quite make out wbicb. 
And you and he used to be more friendly than you are, usen’t you? 
What’s the matter?” 

“My dear Millard,” said Mr. Bom pas, again holding up his hands 
in astonishment, ” your power of observation appalfs me — really stag- 
gers me. It is most undeniably true that— ah — Mr. Shelman and I 
have lately beeji on terms which have been— ah— less— well, less 
cordial than usual; but consider, my dear sir, con-si-der, I pray you, 
how very much engrossed— yes, engrossed and engaged, Mr. Shel 
' man has been by this— this” — (Mr. Bompas paused and then revert- 
ed to his original expression) “ this most unfortunate occurrence — ” 

“ The election!” 

' ‘ The election— precisely. 3 say he has been so over burdened 
with work and— ah — anxiety that, do'ubtless, he has had but little 
time tu spend oVer one to whom the whole ^air is obnoxious, and 
who has refused to take any part in the matter” 

“ Come, come, that’s not it, at least, not entirely. Listen here. 
Wasn’t there some little disagreement about that house of Mrs. 
Btanhope’s that you sold for her to young' Galbraith?” 

“ There certainly was a modicum— a mere modicum - -of irritation 
shown toward me by Mr= Shelman on the occasion of which you 
speak, but it was — ah— transitory and was— ah— easily explained 
away. Our mutual friend Sennett here will bear me out when 1 as- 
sure you, as 1 assured Mr, Shelman at the time, that the sale of the 
house^to Mr. Galbraith was the— ah — outcome of Mrs. Stanhope’s 
own personal— ah — desire. His disappointment was in no way at- 
tributable to me.” 

“ No, no, Millard,” said Sennett, coming to the assistance of his 
old friend, “ Bompas is right enough there; that was entirely the 
'lady’s doings. Why she did it, goodness knows. 1 always fancied, 
and so for that matter did many other people, that she and young 
BheIma;j‘'^ould nave made a rnatch, but it seems otherwise noWo” 
W'eil, well,” said old Millard, after a pause, and looking from 
-"6ne to the other of his cronies, “ why Mrs. Stanhope didn’t sell the 
house is very little matter of mine. If Shelman wants Down- 
liolmes, and gives me my price for it, he can have it; it’s an outly- 
ing bit for me, and 1 had always intended putting some houses on it 
to serve me as an excuse for riding into Avonham now and again. 
But time has gone on and I’ve never built, and I’m too old now to 
begin; so, as the lad seems to want the land, why he can have it; so 
if he should call on you, Sennett, will you settle the business and 
^ let him see the deeds?” 

Mr. Sennet i assented. 

“ By the way,* Bompas,” said Millard, when two or three details 
had been settled, ” I’ve a letter here from Carter, the parson He 
wants me to meet him in Avonham next Monday, but I sha’n’t go 
into the place on the day of nomination — there will be a great crowd, 
or else I should like to see friend Sennett here doing his duty at the 
head of things. ” 

“ Sennett wishes he could stop away from Avonham on Monday,’^ 
said that worthy. 

” So 1 sha’n’t go. I’ve a gun of Carter’s, which he lent me, and 
I want to return it: he’ll want it for the first. Will you take it into 


'AS AYOIS’ FLOWS. 71 

Avonham and give it to young Carter in your office and ask him to 
hand it to his talher?’’ 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ Thank you. How’s that boy getting on with you?’' 

Mr. Bompas hesitated before answering. There rose before hi® 
_ mind’s eye the vision of two Messrs. Carter in one and the same in- 
dividual. One, the brisk, chatty, familiar Carter of yore, whose 
little airy quips and cranks had given to his stately office just that 
I light and cheery tint which so admirabl}^ set ofl and showed, in 
^ colors strong by sheer contrast, his own stately port and solid gifts 
of eloquence; and the other, Adolphus Carter, of the past few days 
snappish, irritable, incomprehensible; the two characters were as 
different to the puzzled Mr- Bompas as though they had belonged to 
two individuals, and it was therefore some moments before he haz- 
arded a reply. 

“What’s the matter with said Millard, “have all the 

^ youngsters gone wrong?” 

“ Ho you know, Millard and Sennett,” said Bompas solemnly and 
_ deliberately, “ do you know, 1 really think they hawjy and he pro- 
^ ceeded gravely to inform his friends of the altered manner of Mr.' 

Carter, of the puzzle in his own famil}^ and of the strange way in 
; which Mr. Galbraith’s name had been coupled with Addie’s, of Mr. 
Bryceson and his off-hand ways, and finally of the very cool recep- 
tion which Shelman always seemed to get both from Mr. Bompas 
and his daughters. 

“1 really must confess,” he concluded, “ that 1 have been fairly 
^ — ah— puzzled by many of these things. Of course 1 must have an- 
ticipated, and indeed always ham, the— ah— probability of having 
my children disposed of in — ah — holy matrimony; andl also looked 
^ forward— nature having blessed my girls with — ah — their share of 
good looks — ” 

“ Which they inherit from both sides,” said Sennett. 

“ Thank you — that their preference for one— ah— lover over an- 
other,’ might lead to some heart-burnings and cou sequences naturally 
attending the — ah— rivalry of young men; but this seems to be most 
curious. 1 really cannot say that my position, or rather posit ion ^ 

has anything— ah— tragic in it, but it has emphatically much — very 
much- that is embarrassing. Here,” said Mr. Bompas, stretching 
' out his hands and looking appealingly at his friends, “here are 
three or four young men, and three or four interests, all of whom 
■ and which I begin to think are somehow infiuenced by my— by the 
-^by some portion of my family, and yet there is no open — ah — 
statement — no — ah— patent fact before me to enable me to deal 
with this most pe-cu-li-ar state of things.” 

“Well, 1 don’t know,” said Sennett, “you seem to be a very 
lucky man in one sense, even if your position is a little queer. ■ All 
the gentlemen you have named are eligible sons-in-law, and the only 
difficulty 1 can see in the matter is which of the young ladies each 
wants. One man can’t marry them all. Now do you really want 
a bit of advice?” 

“ My dear Sennett, my dear Millard, 1 was hoping to get your 
advice when 1 told you of my difficulty.” 

: “ Well,” said the mayor, “ the difficulty— it there really is much 


AS AYON" FLOWS, 



•difficulty beyond the one point which 1 mentioned just now— Keg 
partly with yourself. You are fidgeting over a state of things which 
Ihere really isn’t much need to worry about; now lake a little ad- 
vice.” 

“ What is that?” said Bom pas. 

** You were saying this morning as we rode over here that you 
had a good mind to send Mrs. Bompas and the young ladies down 
to Weymouth out of the way. Do so— a month’s absence makes a 
wonderful difierence.to a young lover — it spurs him on remarkably. 
If you weie a match-making mamma, Bompas, instead of an unso- 
phisticated old dad — who is not the first whose daughters’ intentions 
nnd likes and dislikes have puzzled him— you would have hit on 
this scheme long ago. What say you, Millard?” 

Of course, of course, best thing in the world.” 

Mr. Bompas reflected sagely tor some minutes, and filling his 
jglass from the bottle which his host passed to him, sipped his wine 
Slowly and deliberately. 

”1 trust,” he said at last, ” that 1 am m no indecent hurry to—” 

” To what? To see your girls settled? Pooh! nonsense,” said 
^Hillard, ” it's the first duty of a parent. What else have the old 
ones to live tor? Tell ine, Bompas, what makes you work as you 
do?” 

” What makes me work as 1 do?” said Mr. Bompas slowly, 
” well 1—1 suppose— 1 think 1 see what you mean, old friend — you 
mean that 1 work for the children, »and— ” 

“Of course 1 do. Well now, doesn’t it strike you that the mere 
money and property which you leave your children is of very small 
value compared with their opportunities of enjoying it, and of liv- 
ing happily with it.” 

” Most decidedly — what other opinion could one form?’* 

” Very well, then, apply a little of the diplomacy and energy 
whicli.you devote to your business to the object. Y ou’re sure to ^ 
straightforward and honorable in the affair as you are in business. 

> Devote that a little to clearing up this tangle and setting matters 
straight. Take Sennett’s advice. Send the ladies away for a 
month, and ten to one you’ll gather — if it’s only from their dutiful 
inquiries and polite messages — from the lads themselves who wants 
whom and how the land lies. There, now we’ve thrashed that 
matter out for you— now for the other bottle,” 

The bottle was fetched, and gravely discussed as befitted its vint- 
age; and yet another made its appearanbe, for the three old cronies 
were noted for a rare and exquisite taste in port, and had priceless 
wines in the yawning old-fashioned cellars, so that the moon was 
high as the mayor and his charioteer drove into Avonham that 
evening. 

The hour of breakfast in a welhregulated, well-to-do country 
family is, or ought to be, one of the pleasantest of the twenty-four. 
It was so at Mr. Bompas’s house. The table would have groaned 
tinder the good things but for its solidity and strength. The girls 
an their morning dresses made a picture very pleasant and pretty to 
the eyes of their proud parents. The cares of the day had not yet 
begun, and the troubles of the day before had been forgotten in 
<«leep. Mr. Bompas had indeed not forgotten his perplexities, nor 


AS AVOK FLOWS* 


W- 

?iis friend S6'nnett’s advice, but he knew that his scheme would re- 
sult at any rate in giving his women-kind pleasure, so it was with 
feelings of complete satisfaction that he broached the subject on the 
day following. 

He commenced by alarming Mrs. Bompas by what he described as 
the immensel}^ insecure position of the non-voting inhabitants during 
the election, and then proceeded to express his wish that it were 
possible for him to arrange for their absenting themselves for a few 
days from Avonham. This, of course, was well received, and fol- 
lowing up this success, Mr. Bompas suggested that a visit to the 
sea-side would perhaps be the Dest means of flight. But here he had 
reckoned without his host. Nothing but a trip to London would 
satisfy the young ladies. They were stanchly backed up by Mrs. 
Bompas, and soon carried their point. 

“ Well, my dears,” said the father, “ London be it, then. When 
will you be ready to go? You will want new dresses, and—” 

New dresses! The idea of such a thing! As if they would take 
country-made new dresses to London instead of purchasing thenr 
there. What an idea of dear papa. 

” But 1 thought that you always wanted new dresses to visit a 
place with?” said the strategist. 

” My dear papa,” said Adelaide, ” why we’d shut ourselves up 
for a week, surrounded by no other human creatures but dress- 
makers, rather than get things here. We’re ready to start to- 
morroWo You dear old dad, how good of you to think of us. 
Won’t we start packing directly! Just fancy, another sight oi* 
London ” 

” What about apartments?” said steadier mamma, her face, 
however, lighting up with the prospect; “and, Abel, my dear, it 
will be no good ^ing tor a week. A week is no good.” 

“No good at all,” chorused the girls. ' ■ 

” Well, my dears,” said Mr. Bompas, ‘‘do not limit yourselves 
to time. 1 shall myself be glad of a week in London, and will join 
you there. 1 shall of course accompany you there and see you settled' 
and then return.” And congratulating himself on his capital tact, 
the worthy man left his family rejoicing at the prospect of their 
holiday, and went to his business with a serene mind. 

Mr. Adolphus Carter and the other clerks had arrived, but Mr. 
Carter had not yet commenced business. He was standing at the 
door of the office, and scowling in a very dark and agitating manner 
at two gentlemen who were passing down the other side of the 
street, Mr. Galbraith and his friend. Mr. Bompas had taken his 
hat from the hall as he crossed it, and he now touched the uncon- 
scious articled pupil on the shoulder to make him sensible that he 
wanted to pass out into the street. Adolphus started as he felt the 
touch of his employer’s hand, and then hastily gave him the usual 
morning salutation as he made way for him. 

Now the intention with which Mr. Bompas went out this particular 
moining was to visit Mr. Raraty and engage a conveyance to take 
his party to the railway on the morrow. He had no sooner stepped 
out of his office door, however, than the young men walking on the 
opposite side of the street stopped in their course and crossed the 
street to speak with him. Mr. Adolphus Carter, with a darker 


u 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


scowl than ever on his lace, listened eagerly to what was being saidf 
still retaining his place in the doorway. 

The customary greetings having been exchanged, the young men 
Wintered on their business. 

“Mr, Bompas,”' said Galbraith, “1 am anxious to acquire, if 
possible, that meadow next to my lawn hedge. Can you tell me 
whose land it is?’* 

“ It belongs, Mr. Galbraith,” saidBompas, “ to your former land- 
lord, or, as may be deemed more fitting, considering the fact that 
she is of the opposite — ah— sex, landM?/, Mrs. Btanhope.” 

“ Bhe seems to own lots of land about here,” said Mr. Bryceson, 
taking a cigar from his case. “You smoke, Mr. Bompas? not so 
oarly? Cigar, Harry?” 

“ The late Mr. Stanhope, who was a native of this town,” said 
Mr. Bompas, “ but who went from it in youth to achieve dignity 
and wealth in the vast metropolis, on retiring from business invested 
largely in land in the neighborhood, so that' at his death his — ah — 
widow, or, 1 ma}^ say, relict — relict seems more legal and appropri- 
ate to a conversation having a commercial, or at least a financial, end 
in view — became possessed, as your friend says, Mr. Galbraith of 
a considerable extent of landed property in this immediate vicinity.” 

“ How long Jras this interesting widow bee7i a widow?” said 
Bryceson. 

“ Pour years, m 3 " dear sir; four years.” 

“ Harr}^ you haven’t introduced me to this lady. You really 
must.” 

“ I’ve never met the lady myself, my dear fellow.” 

“ Dear me, Mr. Galbraith; is it possible that you have not yet been 
introduced to Mrs. Stanhope?” 

“ Quite true, Mi. Bompas. Y^ou managed the business between 
US', you know. Ko, 1 never met her.” 

“'You have seen her, of course?” 

“ Oh, yes, I’ve seen her out driving two or three times. By the 
bye, Mr. Bompas, 1 want a loose box built. 1 must talk to you 
^bout the plans of it.” 

“ 1 shall be quite at your service, my dear sir, and glad to assist 
you.” 

“ Y/ill to-morrow be convenient for you?” 

“Why, no, Mr. Galbraith, 1 purpose to-morrow, if all is well, to 
accornpany my wife and daughters to London.” 

Ylr. Carter perceptibly jumped. 

“ 1 hope you’ll have a pleasant journey, Mr. Bompas. Do you 
stay long there?” 

“ My family will remain there some time, and 1 shall ultimately 
join them.” 

“ 1 hope you’ll have a good time, Mr. Bompas, and the ladies 
too. Well, I’il call in one morning when 1 see that you have re- 
turned. At the same time, 1 want to see if 1 cannot obtain this 
field. Do you think it 1 saw Mrs. Stanhope it would be of any 
use, or do you transact all her business tor her?” 

“Mrs. Stanhope is good enough to place the landed portion of ^ 
her property in my hands for management, and w^ould doubtless re^ 
ter you to me; 1 will, however, speak to her upon the matter, f©r 1 


AS AVOi^ FLOWS. . 75 

liave some accounts to submit to her to-day, and shall see her most 
probably this afternoon.” 

” It you will do so, Mr. Bompas, you will oblige me. 1 like your 
town, and 1 shall be glad to invest money in it, tor 1 fancy when 
‘ you get your railway it will improve.” 

” Doubtless, Mr. Galbraith; my own opinion decidedly.” 

” Well, good morning, Mr. Bompas, we’re just going for a gallop* 
by the way, how is your triend Mr. Millard? I’ve got some 
pamphlets— American ones— from the Agricultural Department at 
Washington that 1 should like to show him.” 

” J was at Mr. Millard’s last evening; he has recovered from his 
late attack.” 

” Well, we’ll ride over and leave these. Good-morning.” 

” Good-morning.” 

Mr. Carter went to his desk with conflicting emotions; he sat for 
some time moodily regarding the West Country Fire Ofiice Alma* 
nac on the wall before him, and then, rising and taking his hat, 
said to the office lad — 

” Tell Mr. Bompas I’ve gone out on some private business,” and 
as he passed out into the street he muttered, “I must get away 
somewhere and think this out; if this fellow is going to live forever 
in the same town as 1 do, 1 must strongly restrain my feelings or 
they will end in — ” 

“Ha— a— a— h!” 

He moodily shook his head, and hurried into the High Street. 

“ And the family going to London too! What does that mean? 
There goes Mr. Shelman, canvassing 1 suppose. 1 wonder it he’s 
got time to spare — I’ll see. 1 fancy 1 know his feelings in a certain j 
quarter and toward a certain party. 1 don’t see why 1 should have 
all the worry and irritation to myself.” 

In an hour’s time Mr. Carter returned to the office from which 
Mr. Bompas was still absent. He was in high good humor, declined 
to grovel in any way by attempting to work ; whistled portions o£ , 
popular airs, hummed snatches of familiar operas, and in short re- 
sumed the gay and caroling lark-like manner which had lately been 
changed and supplanted by the moody genius of jealousy. 


CHAPTER X. 

HOW MR. SHELMAN SPENT A SPARE AFTERNOON. 

“ Canvassing,” said Walter Rivers softly to himself, as he stood 
looking out of the window of his uncle’s committee-room at the 
Great George on the day following, “canvassing doesn’t agree 
with Master Alfred, 1 can see.” 

He was alone in the room, for Sir Headingly’s committee had 
finished both their business and their luncheon, and Sir Headingly 
had gone home, so no one heard the soliloquy, 

“ No, Master Alfred,” he proceeded, looking after Shelman, who 
was passing up the street, “ it certainly doesn’t do you good, and 
I’m very far from certain that it does your worthy uncle any good, 
the way you go about it; and I’m sure it doesn’t do us very mucd 


‘ 5'6 AS AVON' FLOWS. 

harm, so canvass away, my dear fellow, we hold the winning cards, 
however you play the game. ” 

And Walter Rivers left the subject and the window together, and 
soothed himself after the work of the morning with a cigar. 

Meanwhile his unconscious rival made his way np the town, and, 
after calling at the committee-room at the Woolpack, and having 
a breif interview with his uncle, he proceeded toward the church- 
yard path leading to the Priory House. He had not reached the 
^ate, however, when he espied the mayor, wfio was coming toward 
him— to him of course he must Speak. The first words of Mr. 
Bennett did not improve his ill humor; they were words of condol- 
ence on his appearance. The mayor thought he looked ill, supposed 
that it was the effect of the election work, and threw in a good- 
natured caution not to overdo matters. To all this Shelman listened, 
chafing the while. There was nothing specially irritating in the re- 
.marks, and he was inwardly ashamed of himself for allowing them 
to fret him; so he concealed his feelings, confessed to feeling tired, 
and smilingly promised to take care of himself. To his great relief 
'the conversation took a turn, and the everlasting election topic was 
shelved for a time. 

“ 1 saw Millard last night,” said Mr. Sennett, “ and he was telling 
me that you had made him an offer for the Downholmes land.” 

“ Yes, 1 did. 1 want to buy some land to build on, and enough 
to make a kind of park on a small scale with two or three meadows 
and home paddocks. There is just about the right quantity in Mr. 
Millard’s piece, and it is well wooded near the road, and runs down 
to the river, two very important things.” 

” Ob, yes, if you were thinking of building you could not have a 
better site.” 

” Millard is willing to sell, 1 believe.” 

“ Oh, quite, quite. He originally intended to lay out a small 
estate there, giving each house- about two acres of land for garden 
and smalhpaddock, but the fit has jjassed off, and you can have the 
land if you like.” 

” 1 wish 1 could have bought the Coombes and Millard’s land 
as well. 1 would have built a wing on each side of the present 
house, thrown a light iron bridge across the river, let mygarden and 
lawn run down to the bank this side, and had a stream right through 
my property.” 

‘‘ Why didn’t you buy it?” said Mr. Sennett, for once yielding to 
a little curiosity, for he was really anxious to know. 

” 1 didn’t know it was in the market, 1 assure you. 1 had made 
Mrs. Stanhope an offer for it at the time Major Currie left, and she 
had declined to part with it then, or even to let it. Its sale took me 
quite by surprise, and 1 don’t think Mr. Bompas knew anything of 
it until he got instructions from Mrs. Stanhope’s London lawyers. 

1 wish to goodness she had put the matter in your hands.” 

“ Messrs. Goldings and West were Mr. Stanhope’s solicitors for 
many years, and it would not be reasonable to expect Mrs. Stanhope 
to change them. They stand extremely well in the prof ession— at 
the top of the tree, in fact. 1 can’t expect to get aU the clients in 
.Marlshire, Mr. Shelman.” 

The mayor spoke rather stiffly. This young man was evidently 


AS AVOI^- FLOWS. 


77 

,"^ery peevish over something, and besides, was good enough to as- 
sume that any matters left in his (the mayor’s) hands for manage- 
ment would have been subject to Ms peculiar wishes and Ms partic- 
ular fancies. Shelman was decidedly unlucky; somehow he did not 
make friends of people whom he really needed. 

“ Well,” he went on, “the property can’t be bought now. 1 
offered the present proprietor a good round sum tor his bargain, and 
was refused, and as there is no other house in Avonham that 1 should 
oare about tor a country seat, 1 must build one tor myself, and if 
Millard does not want too much tor Downholmes 1 shall be very 
glad to buy. You have the management ot this, at any rate?” 

“Yes, and full power to treat, so if you will give me a call to- 
morrow we can talk the matter over. At present I am going to % 
meeting of the Market Committee. Say ten o’clock to-morrow 
, morning.” 

“ Very well. Good- day, Mr. Mayor.” 

“Good-day.” 

“ Come, that’s something done, at any rate,” mused Shelman, 
be turned into the churchyard path. “ And now for the other mat- 
ter.” 

His ring at the bell of the Priory House gate brought a servant 
who ushered him into the room in which, though he little dreamed 
it, his rival had successfully pleaded his suit but a few evenings be- 
fore. Here he sat for a few minutes toying with a paper-knife until 
the door opened and Mrs. Stanhope entered. 

She was dressed with even more than her usual richness, and had 
jewels shining and flashing back the sunshine from neck and hand 
and wrist. Something more than her usual stately grace there was 
about her that made her more queenly than ever. She greeted him 
with the brightest of smiles and the gentlest of gentle hand-pressures 
that sent the blood coursing through his veins, and signaling his 
Jrapture from his cheek. 

“At last, then, you have paid me a visit. I began to think I 
should never see you again.” . 

Shelman muttered something about “ pressure of public affairs 
as he took his seat opposite to her, and watched her jeweled fingers 
playing with the fan she carried. 

“Another of the disadvantages ot not being the possessor of a 
vote. Had 1 been an elector I should have had a call from your 
uncle and you together long ago. But 1 suppose you really have 
been very busy, and only able to call on people who could grant you 
favors.” 

“ 1 hope,” said Shelman, rather nervously, for the ring of satire 
was not to his liking, “that you don’t give me credit for being 
selfish or mercenary where you are concerned, although I’m afraid, 
perhaps, you will think so when 1 tell you that 1 am come now to 
ask a favor of you.” 

“ Come, then, you must admit there was something in my remark, 
after all?” 

“ Your remarks are always to the point, but you really must con-^ 
sider how very much 1 have had to do. I should not be in Avon-" 
bam at all, and have had to give up a capital trip to Switzerland 


78 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


and Italy with some London friends solely on account of this elec- 
tion. 1 assure you uncle has worked me like a nigger over it.’’ 

“ And 1 hear that your opponents are likely to beat you, after 
all.” 

. ” Indeed I it’s by no means certain. May I ask who your inform- 

ant was?” 

^ “ Mr. Rivers^ of course. 1 have scarcely been outside the gates^ 

since the affair began. He seems to be very confident of Sir Head- 
ingly Gann’s success. ” 

“Well, you know the wish is father to the thought in his case; 
no doubt he thinks a great deal both of his chance and of himself, 
but I Can tell him — ” 

“ Pray, don’t tell me. As 1 haven’t any vote, for which 1 am 
sincerely grateful, do let this house be the one spot in Avonham 
where the different parties can meet on neutral ground. Let us- 
change the subject; it was my fa,ult for starting it. What is this 
^ favor you are going to ask me?” 

^ Shelman bit his lip and shifted uneasily in his chair: then, after a 
few seconds’ pause, he said; 

“ Do you know the land on the other side of the Avon, opposite 
i the back of the Coombes?” 

^ “ Yes; it is not mine, you know.” 

i “ No, it belongs to Millard of Beytesbury, who is willing to sell it 
I to me; but on this side of the river, next to the Coombes, there is 

* a meadow skirting the river which is yours.” 

“ Yes, that is mine; it is called Poundpiece in the old titles. 

; It was part of the Abbey lands, as all the land on that side was. 1 
have, or rather Mr. Bompas has, some very curious old title deeds 
relating to it. My husband was interested in those matters, and has 
^ often shown them to visitors here.” 

“ 1 hope that you are not specially attached to that meadow.” 

I “Oh, dear, no; not specially. It is let to Mr. Killett, the butcher, 

J for grazing.” 

• “ Is he a yearly tenant?” 

“ 1 believe so; why do you ask?” 

“ W ell, 1 want to build myself a house on Millard’s land; it would 
be, perhaps, twelve months in being built, but I should very much 
like to buy Poundpiece. I could throw a light biidge over the 
... river, and it would give me an entrance into South Street, instead 
of driving all round the Bath Road or trusting to the wooden bridge, 
which is under water in winter very often. The favor 1 was going 
to ask was that you should sell me this piece and further my views 
that way.” 

^ - She did not answer at once, but sat looking at him smilingly, as if 
only to express the necessary interest in what he was saying, and 
toying still with the fan. In a minute or so she said: 

“ Mr. Bompas, you know, manages all the affairs of my land and 
^houses.” 

“ 1 know,” said he; “ but 1 did not like to go to Mr. Bompas 
first, as the land was not announced for sale; of course, if it had 
« been it would have been a different matter. 1 came to ask whether 
you would consent, as a personal favor to me, to part with it. It is 
so far away from your house that it could never be of any use to yoa 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


79 

as a garden or home paddock, and, as you let it to Kiilett, I thought 
you would not mind selling it to me.’" 

“ Do you know 1 have declined to sell it to Kiilett?” 

No/l didn’t know that.” 

” Oh, yes, som& years ago;. and since then I have had an offer for 
it. Well, will you see Mr. Bompas about it? 1 won’t give you any 
answer to-day. I must consult someone else, too: but never mind 
•that at present. You are not in want of an immediate answer, are 
you?” 

1 “Well, 1 am to see Mr. Sennett to-morrow morning at ten 
o’clock about Millard’s land, and 1 should have been glad to know, 
because, of course, 1 should, perhaps, be influenced if 1 could 
have it.” . 

‘‘ You shall have an answer by ten: it shall be sent to the bank. 
By the bye, 1 suppose your uncle is too busy to be able to call on 
me, isn’t he? 1 want to consult him about some securities and 
other matters. Perhaps I had better come down to the bank as an 
ordinary customer would. ” 

” Why not tell me what the business is^ My uncle will certainly 
Tefer the matter to me, and, you know, I am just as much head of 
the bank now as he is, indeed more, for he is gradually giving up 
the active share in the concern. 1 shall be only too glad to serve 
you.” 

There was an insidious tenderness in the last words which she did 
not miss. 

” Is it judicious, think you,” she replied, casting down her eyes, 
“to trust one’s secrets to a young man? My worldly wisdom is 
not great, but it makes me doubtful on that point.” 

” Ah,”^said he suddenly, and with fervor, ” give me the right of 
beicg trusted by you in all things, of serving you always, and of 
always being with you. That is what 1 want; let me ask you for 
that.” 

They had both risen, he with flashing eyes and burning cheeks, 
and trembling with excitement; she was calm and stately, and the 
hand which he took for a moment was cool and steady. She drew 
it gently away, and said, looking steadily at him, but with a smile 
which he did not care to see: 

“ This is a new way of purchasing land and asking simple favors, 
Mr. Shelman.” 

‘‘It is an old way of telling a Woman you love her; and you 
know that is true.” 

” 1 thought so once,” she said, in tones so calm and cold that his 
heart died within him, and he shivered as with the cold. “ There 
was a time when, if you had spoken as you have now, you might 
have been answered differently. It is too late now, Mr. Shelman. 
1 am sensible of the honor you have done me, but my answer must 
be ‘No.’” 

” How have 1 offenddd — ” 

“ You have not offended. 1 have no right to feel offended. 
There was never anything between us, how could you offend?” 

“ There is something else in the way, 1 suppose,” he said, coarse^ 
ly, for his temper was no longer under control, and his face wasi 
livid with passion. 


80 


AS ATON FLOATS. 


“Mr. Shelman,'’ she said, quietly, “ you were imprudent jusl^ 
now in leaping before you looked; pray, do not add impertinence tO' 
your imprudence. Remember that 1 am a woman, and, in spite of 
your assertion, alone. You will, 1 am sure, see the necessity of -f 
terminating this painful scene, if only for your own interest.’' 7 ' 
“ My own interest!” | 

“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes kindling with a dangerous fire, ; 

“ do not make an enemy of me; go away and forget this aiiair, as 1 
shall, unless you give me cause to remember it. You can find con- 
solation no doubt; you have sought it before when you had little ' 
need of it. You tired of me once and now you have come back - 
again. 1 am not a child’s toy, and if 1 were 1 am no toy for you. | 
Remember that 1, too, have formed other ties since then, as you 
have been graciously pleased to assert. 1 make no denial of it : you 
shot in the dark but you have hit the mark. Let that be sufficient 
ioi you, and do not provoke me against you. There is no reason 
why we should not part friends. 1 have told you that 1 am sensible 
of the honor you have done me and—” 

“ And you have told me something more,” he answered, not 
violently, but with no less rage, “ j^ou have also made me sensible* 
of an honor, which, six months ago, you would have conferred 
r upon me by your own showing. Six months ^go 1 might have had 
that dainty hand, which you have refused me to-day.” 

I Not a shadow on her face, nor a trace of anger in her tone was 
7 apparent as she replied: 

v' “ I did say so, and it is true; 1 am thankful that you did not 
; throw me the handkerchief then, and 1 am much too wise to pick it 
.up now. You do not seem at all a desirable person with whom a 
woman would have to live forever. You are playing into my 
hands by showing your temper now, and you are very foolish. 
Since you will have war let it be wai ; and let me tell you how 1 am 
; enjoying my revenge.” 
i “ Your revenge!” he said, hoarsely. 

f ^ “ Yes, my revenge; do you think that 1 do not know what hap- 
I . pened last spring, last spring when you might, perhaps, have had 
I what you have been asking tor to-day? Was it on account of your 
! great desire to serve me always as you put it to-day — and really you | 
f put it very prettily for such a sudden outbreak— was it on that ac- ? 

J count that you hovered round Adelaide Bompas, the daughter of 
I my house-agent ” (she sneered as she named her) “ until your names 
4 were coupled together by the idle gossips of this tattling place, and 
I my very housemaids and grooms were indignant for me? Ah, Mr. 

I Shelman, you over-reached yourself thefe, for 1 fancy you did not 
] find all that you wanted in the family of my worthy agent, Mr. 

I Bompas; no, you only succeeded— perhaps that is what you wanted 
I — in alienating me from you, though 1 have concealed it till now. 
f 1 am not a perfect woman, 1 am not above resentment, my hour of^ 

I resentment has come, as 1 knew it would, and 1 am satisfied. Do 
I you be satisfied too, and do not provoke me. Sit down with your 
I disappointment and don’t rise up against the cause of ik And if 
I you slight another woman and then try to whistle her back, let it be 
one with a shorter memory than mine, and with a smaller knowl- 
edge of the world and of men. ’ ’ 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


81 


Choked by his wild rage, and with his brain in a whirl with pas- 
sion and disappointment, he did not lor a moment trust himself to 
speak, lie laid his hand upon the handle of the door, and turned to 
where she stood like a queen dismissing some worthless follower.. 
She had never, he thought, looked so well. Her anger had made 
her cheek Hush, and her eyes were ablaze with light — they twinkled, 
and flashed like the diamond which shone on her heaving breast. 
What a fool he had been! AYhat a woman he had lost, so fair in her 
moments of loving, so fair in her moments of ragel He recovered. 
himself with an effort and said, 

Mrs. Stanhope, 1 have been wrong. Allow me to take mjr 
leave.’' 

“ 1 am waiting for jmur departure, sir." 

“ When we are both a little calmer and think over this short, but 
highly dramatic scene we shall both laugh — " 

“ At each other, very probably." 

“ That- even may happen, but it is not exactly what 1 was going; 
to say; we shall both laugh at the way in which we have played at 
battledore and shuttlecock together, with the pretty phrases of love 
and constancy which we have been using to-day." 

“You are becoming sensible; we shall part with some outward 
show of respect alter all. " 

“Oh, believe me, 1 admire and respect you very much; your 
character is one which commands respect. " 

“ And yours too, Mr. Shelman. You are sure to make your way 
in the world— somehow. " 

“ 1 will try," he said, stifling his rage, tor he was getting much 
the worst of this repartee, and- he was thankful to see her hand on 
the bell. “ 1 have your good wishes of course?" 

“ Decidedly, now that you are sensible again." 

“ And 1 will ask my uncle to come up to-morrow afternoon, if 
you will be at home," he added, for the servant was in the room. 

^ “ If you please, tell him I-will not detain him long. Good-morn- 
ing, Mr. Shelman." 

“Good-morning, Mrs. Stanhope." 

She heard the door close behind him, walked to -the mirror and 
looked steadily in it for a few minutes, then turned away, murmur- 
ing to herself, 

“ He must have been a fool not to have read my face better— well^ 
at any rate there is an end of M/ 2 ." 

And summoning her maid she left the room. 

He walked unsteadily to the gate, and was thankful that no one 
saw him. When he stood in Priory Street, the ground appeared to 
heave, and his eyes seem full of blood; he paused a moment to 
steady himself, and looked up and down the street uncertain which 
way to take. 

“ 1 must get away somewhere quietly and think this over. I'm 
not fit to be trusted among men. I should have murdered her in 
ten minutes more. " 

He walked quickly down the Priory Street, turned dowm a lane 
which ran past the back of its stables, and reached the bank of the 
little Marden, which was crossed by a little foot-bridge; here he sat 
on the rail at the side, and drawing his case from his pocket, lighted 


83 AS AVOI^ PLOWS. 

a cigar, and gave liimsell resolutely up to getting the better of Ms 
rage. 

There are some tempers which terrify even those possessed of 
them ; such an one was Shelman’s. He had startled himselt by the 
violence of the passion which had torn his breast, nor was that 
passion easy to quiet. He had played his cards so badly, had 
blundered so egregiously, and had laid himselt ^o open lo defeat 
that his reflections were of the bitterest kind; he railed against him- 
'Self, against his lost love, and against his rival unknown. He gave 
no thought to Hi vers; the idea that he was the man who had sup- 
planted him never occurred to him, and he puzzled his brains in 
vain to couple a name with the widow’s. And, again, the manner 
of his defeat had been so galling; what an ass he had been not to 
take his rejection quietly instead pf letting his temper get the better 
of him, and run away with his reason as it had. It w’as an hour 
before, he felt fit to move from the bridge and enter the town. His 
oigar had gone out, and had been crushed between his fineers and 
plucked at and broken, and finally thrown into the little stream to 
sicken some nibbling gudgeon. He took aiiother from his case, light- 
ed it, and rising from his seat strolled backward and forward across 
the bridge, and then went slowly back toward the town. His face 
showed clearly enough the effects which the terrible mental struggle 
had had on him; it was white, and haggard, and drawn, like the 
face of a death -stricken man. He passed the gates of the Priory, 
mounted the steps of the churchyard path and crossed it, going to- 
ward the bank. As good luck would have it, there was no one in 
the street who noiiced him, and he entered the bank and walked 
through into the room behind. Here he touched the hand- bell on 
the table, and the chief clerk entered. 

‘‘Dear me, Mr. Alfred,” said the old gentleman, starting, as he 
looked at the ashy face of his young superior, “ how ill you look, 
sir; what is the matter?” 

' He forced himself to speak calmly, “lam overworked, 1 think, 
Horton, and 1 have been walking in the sun, and feel rather faint. 
Is there anything special to see after?” 

“ nothing at all, sir, of any importance. 'We are just going to 
•elose, and the balance is correct. If you would allow me to advise 
you, sir, 1 should go home and lie down. You look as if you, were 
going to drop, sir.” 

“1 shall be better presently, thank you, Horton; if you have 
nothing for me 1 will take your advice, 1 think.” 

The clerk withdrew, and Shelman rose and turned to a looking- 
glass in the room. 

“By Jove,” he said to himself, “this has told on me.” The 
sight of his bloodless face seemed to do more to quiet him than his 
previous seclusion. He opened a cupboard in the room, and taking 
a decanter of brandy from it, mixed himself a glassful, halt spirit, 
half water, and drank it hastily. He sat down again for a few min- 
utes, still smoking, until the bank doors were closed, and then went 
into the street again, crossed the market-place, and walked down 
South Street until he came to the office of Mr. Bompas. Here he 
entered. Mr. Adolphus Carter was just putting on his hat and 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 



taking: an affectionate glance at himself in a hand glass which he 
kept in his desk. He looked up as Shelman entered. 

“ Good' afternoon, Carter, is Mr. Bom pas in?’ ' 

“ Good gracious, Mr. Bhelman, how tvhite you look!^ 

“ I’ve been walking in the sun with this confounded heavy hal 
- on, and it has turned me sick. Is Bompas in?” 

“In? no. Didn’t you see him yesterday? He’s gone to Lon- 
don I ’ 

“ What a nuisance. When did he go?” 

“ This morning at ten o’clock. They’ve all gone. Mrs. Bompas 
and the girls have gone for a month, and the governor took them up* 
Why ever didn’t you see him yesterday?” 

“ Why, what difference does it make? It will do when he comes 
back.” 

“ But didn’t 1 tell you yesterday that that fellow was after the 
land, and had asked Bompas to* see about it for him?” 

“Yes; well—” 

“ Well, he’s bought it, that’s all.” 

“Bought it?” 

“Yes, sir, bought it. 1 never was more savage in my life when 
1 heard it. I would have asked my father to buy it himself rather 
than he should have had it, but 1 made sure that if Mrs. Stanhope 
sold it at all she would sell it lb you.” 

Shelman stood astounded. “ Bought it,” he muttered two or 
. three times; “ bought it?” 

“The purchase isn’t completed, but he has paid two hundred pounds 
as a deposit; not that Bompas wanted it, but Goldings have the 
deeds, and Bompas has written to them lor them. Of course that 
^ makes no difference; the land is his to all intents and purposes.” 

“ Well,” said Shelman, making a desperate effort, and speaking 
with a forced laugh which had very little of hilarity in it, “ this 
^ stranger is too quick for us altogether it seems. We must give up try- 
ing to outbid him;” then turning suddenly to Carter, he said, “ Where 
are you going to this evening?” 

“ Nowhere in particular.” 

^ * ‘ Come home and liave some dinner with me at five ; my uncle has 

gone to the meeting at Dunstalne, and I’m all alone at home. Come 
and keep me company. ” 

“ With pleasure, my dear fellow. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve 
dressed.” 

“ Oh, hang your dress. Come as you are. I’m too lazy to dress, 
come along now. I’m bored to death up there alone.” 

^ The two young men walked along the street together, one half 
cross at the failuie of his project, half proud of his company, and 
^ the other turning over in his mind and murmuring to himself sav- 
^agely— 

“Bought it? She knew it when I went, and mocked me with 
her pretense of consulting and letting me know to-morrow. Well, 
' she has fooled me properly this time. I would give all I have to be 
' even with her, and I will be yet.” 

It was not a peculiarly cozy dinner-party. Carter had been to 
many much more convivial entertainments. 


S4: AS AYOi?' FLOWS. 


CHAPTER XL 

INTERVIEWINa. 

Mr. "Walter Bryceson seemed very comfortable in th^ cozy 
quarters of his friend Galbraith, and in no hurry to quit them. 
So freely had he mixed with the townspeople during the weeks which 
he had spent in Avonham, that his intentions and opinions were 
pretty well known there. His health, he stated, was tar from good, 
though he had a rosy cheek, a pair of bright eyes, and a merry laugh 
that smacked very little of the invalid; rest, he said, was what had 
been prescribed for him, rest, country air, and pure milk. The 
4;wo former he partook of freely, the first from choice, the second, 
as he spent much of his time in the open, from necessity; how 
much of the last of his requisites he took no one knew as no one 
in the town ever saw him drinl^ ing -any, although it was rumored 
that the quaffed enormous bowls of it in private. His looks, he 
•declared, were fallacious and deceptive in the highest degree; noth- 
ing but a long course of invigorating Marlshire air would ever give 
him the use of his lungs and his strength again. Having gravely 
told this to good, motherly, sympathizing Mrs. Pinniffer, he would 
wind up with a laugh that made the glasses ring in the bar-parlor 
of the Bear, and emphasize his woes with a hearty slap on her 
husband’s back, which made the ex-fusileer stagger. 

In his visits to the town he was not always accompanied by his 
friend and host. “My friend Galbraith,’’ he would say to any 
listeners.who happened to be in the coffee-room of the Bear, “is 
^ devilish good fellow, devilish good fellow; but,” he would add, 

he’s a little too studious and quiet for me— too bookish, you know 
— bless me, my health would never stand his amount of study. ISio, 
sir, rest and fresh air is what 1 require, and where could 1 get it 
better? Tour air around here, sir, is pure and soft, your downs are 
breezy and large and healthy, your town is quiet, although it is, as 
you say, somewhat agitated by the election, and of course in a graz- 
ing country like this I get the richest and best of milk. Pinniffer, 
my good fellow, if you have any stock of this claret 1 wish to good- 
ness you would sell me some. You haven’t a large stock? Pityl 
pity I Well, send as much as you can spare up to the Coombes, 
will you, and charge it to me? IJpon my word, next to milk 1 think 
this does me more good than anything. Though mind you,” he 
would add gravely, • ‘ 1 think, perhaps, I am injudicious in drink- 
ing it in the morning. Champagne is much better for the lungs, 1 
r eally believe. By Jove! here’s my worthy host come to look for his 
patient. Galbraith, my dear boy, come and take a glass of wine. 
Pinniffer, some of that Piper, you know. Harry, let Ned bring the 
nags round here. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. 1 de- 
clare 1 feel better in this beautiful air already.” 

It was not long, of course, before Mr. Bryceson made acquaintance 
with some of the leaders of the two political parties of the town. 
His opinions were so broad that they at first shocked the politicians, 
^nd his ideas of conducting elections were startling in the extreme. 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


85 


Although in those days there were many old parliamentary boroughs 
which now have to watch the struggle from atar without being able 
to participate in the fray; although the “ Man in the Moon '' was by 
no means unknown in this country, yet some of Mr. Bryceson’s 
schemes were too much advanced for any ordinary electioWagent, and 
the members of the committee to whom he explained some of the 
vUiost successful of transatlantic tricks upon voters held up their hands 
in amazement at the stories he told them. Even a royal commission 
might have sat at his feet and gained information. Getting thus 
into notice as a gentleman of somewhat advanced views, but one 
who took a great interest in the coming struggle, it was not very 
long before this young fellow found himself being introduced to 
both the young men who were fighting the battle and bearing the 
burden of the day for their respective uncles. Shelman was dis/ 
posed to treat him chuffly, and with scant courtesy as not being of 
much use to him, but Rivers, whose plan it was to make friends 
of everybody, took vastly to him, invited him to lunch, laughed at 
his stories, and was not so short-sighted as to miss any of the really 
good suggestions for carrying on the election; more especially did 
he incline his ear to those methods of annoying an adversary which 
Mr. Bryceson had in plenty, and over which the young men laughed 
heartily as they smoked their cigars after lunch. Sir Headingly 
Oann coming into the room one day when they Tvere thus engaged 
was introduced to the stranger, and, on learning that he had spent 
some time in America, was interested enough to put many questions 
respecting some of the institutions of that country to which he re- 
ceived such bright and amusing answers that he went away highly 
pleased with his nephew’s new acquaintance and with a cordial in- 
vitation to his house so soon as the now rapidly approaching struggle 
should be over. Bryceson, who did not care twopence which way 
the election ended, was yet' more favorably disposed toward the 
Cann faction than the Boldham. He accepted the inyitation and 
wished the baronet success. 

Meanwhile Galbraith went on in his old quiet way; of course the 
friends were often together, but Bryceson was about the town alone 
a great deal in search of that fresh aii which he aveired was so in- 
dispensable to his well-being. By alone is meant without his host, 
for it was not in his nature to retire from society, and he was gen- 
erally found in company somewhere, listening in an exemplary man- 
ner to the fathers of the town, or giving ihe benefit of his observa- 
tions of men and things in a very free and off-hand but still in a 
veiy popular style. He seemed as much at home at the Wool- 
pack with Mr. Boldham’s party as he did at the Great George 
among tbe supporters of Sir Headingly Cann, though his. favorite 
house was the Bear, where he made himself thoroughly at home. 

It chanced one day that he was passing up the street in company 
with one of the young men of the town, with whom he had struck 
up a friendship, when outside the shop of Mr. Poilimoy, the trav- 
eler, the Royalist, the stationer, they saw the carriage of Mrs. Stan- 
hope, the leader of society in A vonham, as Mr. Bryceson was in- 
formed by his companion. Mrs. Stanhope was leaning back in the 
carriage, and listening to some explanation which Mr. Poilimoy, 
who stood bareheaded by the side, was giving her. After a few 


86 


AS AVPK FLOWS. 


moments' conversation, the stationer returned to the shop and pres- 
ently emerged with a specimen of the particular article she was 
wanting, and handing it to her explained that he had a variety within. 
Mr. Bryceson left the arm of his friend for a moment, and excusing 
himself, walked into the shop. He requested to look at some small 
article, which he had noticed in the window, and was examining it 
most attentively when Mrs. Stanhope, having been coaxed out of her 
carriage by the obsequious Mr. Pollimoy, entered the shop. On 
that side of the counter where Mr. Bryceson was standing, there 
was only one chair, this he immediately handed to the lady with a 
bow, Mrs. Stanhope thanked him, and taking the chair proceeded to 
explain to Mr. Pollimoy how she wished her order to be executed. 
Mr. Bryceson, who was waited upon by Miss Ruth Pollimoy, a rosy- 
cheeked, bright-eyed damsel, also busied herself about stationery, 
and seemed absorbed in the business. It w^as a business which 
necessitated a good deal of search on the part of Miss Ruth, and 
some apology as to giving trouble was needed. Mr. Bryceson seem- 
ed to want a good many little knick-knacks; a card-case, a pocket- 
book (which took some little time to select), erleather purse (several 
bead ones having been inspected and rejected), and a pen-knife 
were already marked down, and the young, friend outside, tired of 
waiting, had strolled up the street, and still Mrs. Stanhope sat in the 
shop or moved from side to side making selections of small articles, 
or giving instructions for the order of new dainties in leather and 
gilt-edged paper; still, also. Mr. Bryceson remained and kept Miss 
Ruth employed. Mr. Pollimoy beamed with joy and regarded both 
purchasers with eyes of favor. A glass ink-bottle, a hundred en- 
velopes, an ivory paper-cutter, and a pack of playing-cards were 
added to the gentleman's list, when the lady rose to go. Mr. Polli- 
moy accompanied her to the carriage, and bowed profoundly as she 
drove off. Mr. Bryceson wanted change, it appeared, when became 
back to his shop — had nothing but a bank-note for ten pounds; Mr. 
Pollimoy was sorry to keep Mr. Bryceson waiting, but would have 
to send to the bank for the money. The customer was perfectly 
affable and chatted agreeably whilst waiting for his change. Mi. 
Pollimoy informed him that the lady w^ho had just gone out was a 
widow, very well off too, nice lady and quite the leader of the town. 
Mr. Bryceson listened politely, but seemed uninterested in the sub- 
ject, and the change arriving took his leave, ordering the coods he 
had purchased to be sent up to the Coombes. When he rejoined 
his companion, however, he appeared to have forgotten what the 
stationer had told him, for he asked two or three questions about 
the lady, and on hearing that she was a rich widow, declared he 
would make love to her himself. 

“ I'm afraid you wouldn’t have much chance," said the friend. 

" Pooh, nonsense, my dear fellow," said Bryceson, ‘‘ these widows 
always want fresh husbands." 

‘‘ Yes, and there are two or three who would like to marry her,, 
too!" 

" Humph! how long has she been a widow?" 

* ' Abou t four years. ' ' 

" Ah ! well, she's a good-looking widow, and a rich one, and here's 
her very good health, and her * next wentur’s. ' " 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


87 


Then you give her up?’' 

“ Not a bit of it— Miss Pinniffer, aren’t you going to make me a 
irosette for the election?” 

“What colors will you have, Mr. Bryceson,” said rosy Miss 
Pinniffer; “ blue or yellow?” 

“ Both— both certainly— half blue and half yellow. I’m on both 
«ides.” 

“ Then you’ll have both sides acrainst you ; you’d better go neither. ” 

“ Quite right, quite right, I’ll look on and see the fuue” 

Mr. Bryceson had amused himselt thus* until the Friday preceding 
the election weelc Friday was market- day, anci being* the second 
Friday in the month was also cheese market,, and consequently the 
topv^n was full The “ pitch ” of cheese wasjiot large in this partic- 
ular month, and the covered part of the market yard sufficed for 
that commodity. The bulls as usual were attached to stout posts 
in the upper part of the market-place, where they remained (unless 
sold and driven off) all day with angry eyes and parched lips, until 
they were released at four o’clock to go charging down the street to 
the welcome water where they were reclaimed by their various owners 
and driven home. The sheep were hustled into pens, and the poul- 
try cackled and screamed, the taverns . reeked with hot brandy-and- 
water and tobacco, and the tables at the farmers’ ordinaries were 
heaped with solids and fluids of the most substantial sort. 

On this occasion Mr Millard, of Beytesbury, had ridden in on 
his rare old cob, and having put up his nag at a friend’s,, was wend- 
ing his way down South Street to call on Mr, Bompas, when he met 
Galbraith, who, with his friend Bryceson, was going toward the 
market-plaoe. A cordial greeting took place between the three, and 
when Mr. Bompas espying them came out of his office and crossed 
the road to shake hands, it needed very little persuasion to induce 
the elders of the party to bfend their steps back to the Coorabes, 
and experience the hospitality of its owner. Mr. Bompas had not been 
in the hoifSe since he had sold it to Galbraith ; Mr. Millard had never 
visited it at all, and both were somewhat glad of the opportiurity 
of seeing the interior of a residence of which so much was talked, 
and so very little known. Entering the dining-room by the back 
way though the French windows that looked out on to the lawn and 
the river beyond, Galbraith summoned the black servant, who 
presented himself to the eyes of the two visitors clad in the white 
jean suit which is the usual costume of the negro attendants in 
American hotels, and which set off the black face and wooly hair 
of the African to perfection. 

“ Bring some drinks, Edward,” said his master, without entering 
into details, and shortly after, a host of decanters, large and small, 
two flasks of champagne, ice, sugar, soda-water, lemons, and iced 
water made their appearance on a large tray. 

“ Now, Mr. Bompas, what’ll you take, sir? Let Edward make 
you some juleps, or cup, or something. Mr. Millard, have you any 
choice?” 

“ Really, my dear sir, so long as the drink is cool and refieshing, 
1 have no choice,” said Millard; “ there is such a large variety here 
that 1 should have some difficulty in making a aelectipn.” 

Mr. Bompas was of the same opihion. 


88 


AS AY02^ FLOWS. 


“Very well, Edward, then go to work as you like. 'We’re all’ 
thirsty. Walter, reach down some ot those cigars; com^ into the 
veranda, gentlemen, it’s cooler out there.” 

“You have very much added to the natural charms of this place,^^ 
Mr. Galbraith,” saidBompas, as he sunk into the coziest of rocking- 
chairs. 

“ It’s a pretty place,” said Millard, accepting a cigar from Bryce- 
son, and praising it even before he lighted it. 

“ Yes, there are capabilities in it,” said Galbraith. “I’m very 
well satisfied with it. and now that 1 have the extra land, 1 shall da^ 
something more t(f it,, and have a real good garden ready for next 
year.” 

“ Mr. Galbraith has bought the land next to this,” explained Miv 
Bompas, 

“ What, Mrs. Stanhope’s! oh, indeed?. You seem to have got into 
her good graces, sir; it isn’t every one she’ll sell land to, 1 cau 
assure you.” 

“I think 1 must thank our friend here,’' said Galbraith, indicat- 
ing Mr. Bompas; “ he seems to be able to induce the good lady to 
do anything.” 

“ l" certainly pressed Mrs. Stanhope, on behalf of our worthy 
host,” said Bompas, “ as I perceived that he was somewhat anxious 
to add the adjoining tract to his garden ground, and 1 represented 
to her that the property in question being remote from her residence 
and separated from it by the entire width of the town, it would 
he no deprivation of her own private grounds, which, gentlemen;,, 
are extremely beautiful — perhaps you have seen them?” 

The two friends, it appeared, had not. 

“ You have, if you are fond of gardening, a treat in store — they 
are really beau-ti-ful. Well, that argument — if that can be deemed 
an argument in which one persons puts forth certain views and 
another accepts them — that argument prevailed with the* lady and 
1 have to congratulate you on the acquisitiou of a piece of land 
which will doubtless add much to the comfort and elegance of your 
home. Dear me, your^ah — the — ah— Your servant is remark- 
ably dexterous in the combination of fluids.” 

Edward was fully engaged in putting the finishing touches to^ 
the tempting drinks he had been fixing, and was perlorming what 
seemed to the astonished eyes of Mr, Bompas a conjuring feat,, 
tossing the contents of one tumbler into another, juggling with ice, 
palming sugar, and whisking subtle herbs and essences afout in the 
most bewildering way. He then presented to the two visitors a 
beverage in beaded glasses, topped with glittering ice and fragrant 
as a nosegay. Both the old fellows applied themselves to the straws, 
and when the jovial faces looked up there was on each that expressioa< 
of sweetly satisfied content that is best seen after a cool draught 
on a boiling day. 

“ Upon my word,” said Millard, setting his goblet down on the 
table beside him and looking round as if to emphasize his speech — 
“ upon my word, Galbraith, I do not remember that I ever tasted 
anything so capital iti my life.” 

“Most admirable,” chimed in Bompas; “perfectly delicious= 


AS AYOlSr FLOWS. 89 

^hat is, 1 presume, a luxury peculiar to America? May 1 ask its 
/^ame?” 

“ What do you call this, Ked; is it anything special?” 

” No, sir; jes' plain cobbler, sir.” 

“ The concoction must take a considerable amount of practice, 1 
should imagine,” said Bompas, looking tondly into his glass. 

“It seems to come to Ned by nature,” said Bryceson. “Ned, 
when did you fix your first cobbler?^' 

” Long time ago, sir,” said Ned, with a grin— “ spears t’me you 
known ole Ned’s fixin’ long time, too, sir ”— and with anothei grin 
the negro disappeared, tray in Land, to prepare more materials for 
^quenching thirst. 

“A truly valuable man,” said Bompas, with much f (deling. 

“I’m glad you appreciate his efforts,” said Galbraith. ” By the 
way I’ve a check for you, Mr. Bompas, whenever you are ready for 
it.” 

“lam not yet in receipt of the title-deeds. I imagine that Mr. 
Goldings, who personally attenas to all Mrs. Stanhope’s papers (ex- 
cept such as are in my hands), is out of town; there is, however, no 
need for you to stand still, my dear sir — any alteration you may wish 
to make can be at once commenced; you will find no interruption.” 

“ Well, I’m very glad you persuaded the lady. Your health, Mr. 
IBompas, and your fair client’s, too,” said Bryceson. 

With all my heart,” said Bompas. 

“ How long has Mrs. Stanhope been a widow?” said Galbraith. 

“ About four or five years.” 

Was Mr. Stanhope a native of these parts. 1 think you were 
aaying something about him the other day.” 

“ He was,”— said Millard, answering ior his friend; “ he and 1 
went to school together, and Bompas here went todhe same school 
a few years later. Nice fellow Stanhope was; we were always great 
Iriends. His father was a miller in a large way, and did a good 
deal in malt as well. Meant to bring his son up to his own busi- 
ness, but George never seemed to care to settle down to country life. 
He went to ' London when he was about twenty and got into some 
Indian house, proved himself a smart young fellow, and traded a 
little on his own account; got on well — old man backed him up with 
a few hundreds, — and he went into business for himself. When his 
father died — he was an only child — he dropped, of course, into a 
very handsome sum of money, which he was able to lay out to the 
very best advantage, and so he went on gradually getting richer and 
richer, until about eight or nine years ago, when he met this lady in 
London, somewhere, and married her.. She was fond of a country 
life, it appears, and he was always very much attached to his native 
place and held then a ^ood deal of land and some houses here. 
Might have been our member eigliteen years ago if he had wished. 
So they came down and bought the Priory House, which was for- 
merly the residence of an old fellow whose will was disputed and in 
Chancery for some years, and there he settled down. Y/hether it 
was that his native air didn’t agree with him after so many years of 
London, or whether it was that he missed the business pursuits and 
habits he had been accustomed to, 1 don’t know; anyhow, although 
when he came here he was liearty and hale enough to all appearance. 


90 AS AVOI^ PLOWS. 

lie never seemed to be well here, and about four years after he 
came here he died.” 

“Suddenly?” . 

“ Oh dear no; he was ailing a long time, and confined to his be^ 
for about three weeks before he finally went off.” " 

“ Any cause assigned?” 

“ W“ell, il was put down to some bronchial or asthmatical affec* 
tion. Dr. Mompesson here attended him and Dr. Rep worth, fronoi^^ 
Bath; but4hey couldn’t do anything, poor fellow.” 

“ Rather sad^” said Bryceson. “Not much time to enjoy his 
wife and his new home, had he?” 

“No.” 

“ What aged man was he?” 

“ Sixty-one— he was a year my senior.” 

“ Dear me! no age at all for a healthy man.” 

“ No, it is not. Perhaps London life is not so conducive to 
longevity as the less tumultuous existence which we enjoy amid 
more rural scenes,” said Mr. Bom pas, who bad listened quietly ta^ 
the narrative of his old friend’s life and death. 

Bryceson muttered^ something about existence and fossils which 
could not quite be caught. 

“ And since then the widow, 1 suppose, has practiced resignation 
on the old — on her— 1 mean to say,” he went on, “ that she has 
since then been living on a good income.” 

“ With the exception of legacies to old friends and servants, which 
probably did not exceed five thousand pounds, including some 
charitable bequests to this town and to some London institutions, 
the whole of Mr. Stanhope’s property was left to his widow for her 
whole sole use and benefit,” said Mr. Bompas. 

“ And that, 1 suppose, was something handsome?” 

“ Extremely so, my dear sir. Mr. Stanhope’s will was proved 
under nine-ty-se-ven thou sand pounds personalty!” 

“ By Jove!” said both the young men together. 

“ So you see, Mr. Bryceson,” said Millard, laughing, “ if you 
have nothing else to do here, you may do worse than induce Mrs. 
S. to change her name for the second time. Fine chance, sir, fine 
chance for a smart young fellow like you.' I’d offer it to you, Mr. 
Galbraith, but I’ve other views for you, ‘ha, ha, ha! which I’ll ex- 
plain to you some other day. Here comes this fine fellow of yours 
again. Why, this is a different sort of drink altogether; what do 
you call this?” 

“ Mint Julep, sir,” said Edward. “ Jes’ as good as the other, 
sir. Try him, sir.” 

“ By George, Mr. Galbraith,” said the m^rry old fellow, as he set 
down his glass aftef following Edward’s advice, “ if you change 
your condition don’t change your butler; what say you, Bompas?’^ 

Mr. Bompas took his lips from his straw, and looked affectionate- 
ly and gratefully at the negio. “A gifted man,” lie murmured. 
“ A highly endowed domestic, indeed.” 

“ 1 like those two old boys,” said Bryceson, after the visitors had 
left. “ Bompas is great fun, and Millard is just one of those genial 
cheery old fellows that might have walked straight out of Brace- 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 91 

'bridge Hall. 1 say, Harry, just fancy that woman having all that 
money. Gad! we've learned something to-day.^’ 

“ The devil-s own get the devil's own luck. Walter, you and I 
learned that over 't’other side long ago, old boy, didn’t we?" 

" That’s so. 1 wonder when we shall get news from the squire?" 
“ Not for a month very likely. Let’s go into the market and see 
the animals." 

‘ * Which ? The bipeds ?" 

“Ay." 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE ELECTION. 

The important day arrived at last. The nomination of candi- 
dates had but whetted the appetites of the country-side politicians, 
and they now made ready for the substantial dish of the contest. 
Old elections kre goqe in the Limbo of Days and Things, and our 
modern ones have assumed a gravity and dignity much at variance 
with the stormy saturnalia of bygone struggles." For in truth, al- 
though men of our land may turn with pride to the records of our 
Parliaments and the wisdom of our statesmen, for at least a hundred 
years our , country was in a sad condition whilst they were being 
elected, when every place that was not led by its owner to elect 
whomsoever he would (till even a black footman was threatened as 
.an alternative to some temporarily stubborn borough, and would 
have been returned had he been sent), when every place not so owned 
was a scene of riot and confusion that would have put old Rome to 
the blush.' It speaks volumes for our old statesmen that, with such 
material as they got sent to Parliament in those days, they kept the 
good ship Britannia on her course at all. And certain it is that those 
who were seeking the suffrages of the electors paid dearly for their 
victories or defeats, not in money alone, but in dignity. To be for 
a fortnight at once the host and the butt of all the greasy vagabonds 
of the town, to be cap in hand and hand in f.st with men from whom 
at ordinary times the width of the street was scarcely division 
enough, to fawn on men whose usual habits were to fawn, to put up 
with the arrogance of a term, the iniportance of an occasion, the 
haughtiness of an hour, and there is no such arrogance, no si/ch im- 
portance, po such haughtiness as that ot your Jack in office, your 
political pork butcher, your vintner with a vote, this was the way 
in which the candidate earned his victory, if he gained it, and with 
this was his defeat imbittered tenfold when he lost the day And 
-after all this humiliation and unbending, the candidate faced on the 
day of election about as much actual danger as the leader of a cut- 
ting-out expedition in a foreign harbor, and had doubly to unbend, 
^r rather to bend, first to the plaudits of his friends, and next from 
the missies of his foes. 

Add to this the knowledge that the mob were in those days at 
least, totally without infiuence over the election, that the noisy, un- 
washed, vicious crowd Which made the town hideous for a day had 
hot a single vote to the hundred of them. No, their suasion was that 
of force, the argument of tire bludgeon, the logic of the boot; and it 


92 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


was with very small satisfaction indeed that the p:ood people of ‘ 
Avonham saw that from early dawn there poured into the town all 
the loafers and roughs from the country round, eager for sport, as 
they termed the day’s proceedings, and, like all the bucolic roughs,, 
ready in a moment to exchange the stolid bovine indifierence ot 
every-day life for the cruelly unreasoning bovine madness which,, 
when it does break out, which, thank God, happens but seldom, 
leaves far behind in its vicious destructiveness the hunger-spurred 
vengeance of the Lancashire meal mob or the cowardly brutality of 
the race course rough.- Kiot is short and sharp in the North, desper- 
ate for an hour and then invisible for a year, but though the West 
rises but seldom, when it does rise it means blood — from both sides^ 
too. The Western man will take his opponents by “ fair fighting and 
no knives,” and grudges not his own, fights best indeed when a 
little is let out; your ordinary mob has no taste for defeat, and none 
but Western men will stand against troops. 

There was no election in Dunstalne. Their business was done on 
nomination day, and the yellow candidate had a wait over, but he 
had not omitted to range himself on Mr. Boldham’s side at Avon- 
ham, and was here to-day with many of his prominent supporters to 
help the cause and strengthen the hands of his party. Of course^ 
the Dunstalne folk were here in force; they had had no fun in their 
own town, it was obvious that they must patronize the entertain- 
ment provided tor them by their neighbors, and as it would be un- 
fair to come without some addition to the performance, they brought 
over with them a powerful but roughly-trained brass band, which 
stationed itself outside the Woolpack at seven o’clock in the 
morning, and raised the hair from the scalps of early breakf asters 
by its first terrible blast. Forth sallied at once the member’s of the 
two bands, already engaged by the rival candidates, and in ten min- 
utes more quietness and peace were gone, at least, for that day,, 
from the town. In halt an hour the early breakfasters were out in 
the streets, and the late ones were eating in Pandemonium. The 
polls were opened at eight. The mayor was in his place as return- 
ing officer, and already the public-houses began to be patronized. 
The quieter portion of the electors hastened to place their votes on 
record, and the fray fairly began. • 

Of course for such a small town as Avonham there was but one 
polling-place needed, and this was a wmoden erection covered by a 
sloping board roof, and approached by steps; up these the electors 
climbed and recorded their votes aloud for either candidate. Behind 
the returning officer were the friends of the two opponents, andf rom 
time to time during the day the principals themselves looked in to- 
see how the parties were getting on ; saluting one another courte- 
ously when they met, partly from the innate respect each felt tor the 
other, and partly with a view of setting a good example to the two 
mobs who, as the hour of noon approached, began to get very noisy^ 
and hailed with tumultuous enthusiasm the various states of the 
poll as exhibited from the balcony of the George and the win- 
dow of the Woolpack. These were received from the checking 
clerks, who were posted, behind the returning officer, and scored 
each vote as it was given, and vociferously aided their party by 
shouting as the votes were recorded; “ Thank you for Mr. Bold- 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


9 ^ 


ham/’ “ Thank you for Sir Headingly Cann.” These genllemeu 
got hotter and louder and more enthusiastic as the day advanced— »• 
munched at sandwiches and quaffed bottled ale and sherry provided 
by the candidates, and felt greatly uplitted by being part and parcel 
of the election itself, and second in importance only to the two com- 
batants themselves. Two hours after the poll opened the first aa~ 
Houncement of numbers was made? 

Boldham 
Cann. . . . 

This was received by the Dunstalne contingent, and the Yellow 
party with great cheering, replied to by the Blues with equal vigor. 
Then an hour after came the second list: 


Boldham.' 173 

Cann 166 


— after which Sir Headingly took a drive through the town and gave 
his followers heart. There was as yet, however, comparatively little 
excitement, and beyond being made the peg on which to hang cheers 
and chaff, the figures roused but little rdal interest. Walter Rivers 
was, however, busy, and had promised his uncle that ho should be 
ahead at noou. He accordingly marched down from the George 
a large number of voters, and although the movement was vigorous- 
ly responded to by the opposite party, he was able to keep his word,, 
and shortly after twelve o’clock the baronet was received at his com- 
mittee-rooms with a hearty burst of cheers, and saw to his great de- 
light that he had headed his opponent, the numbers shown being; 

Cann. . . . 

Boldham 

Of course the change of affairs gave new zest to the struggle. The 
voters from the village immediately in the neighborhood began ta 
come in. From twelve till two would be the busiest part of the 
election, and both sides girded up their loins for the encounter. Mr. 
Dhniel Follwell, an ardent supporter of Mr. Boldham, escorted his 
own workmen to the poll, and having seen that each man registered' \ 
for his candidate, he recorded his own vote, and gave his men holi- 1 
day for the rest of the day. Most of the small shopkeepers followed" 
his example, not only as to holiday, but as to voting, for the influ- 
ence of the bank was great, and none dared go against his own in- 
terest so far as to run counter to a moneyed nian who had the voter 
in his power. It was greatly on this that Mr. Boldham and Shelman 
relied for their success. Mr. Rann had spoken truly when he said 
that politics in Avonham had been dead so long that interest would 
greatly influence the result of the election; and Sir Headingly felt 
somewhat this way himself, for he said to his nephew as they took 
a glass of sherry together in the middle of the day, “ We’re begin- 
ning to find the bank influence now, Walter.” 

“ We hold them safe, sir,’.’ replied Walter, “ though the fight will 
be closer than 1 thought at first ; but 1 am sure of a hundred ma- 
jority — I have very nearly that on the books. In another election 
they wouldn’t do so well as they are doing now. Besides, we are 


246 

231 


97 

89 


94 


AS AYOK PLOWS. 


fighting two towns. Look at Wilmslow (the member for Dunstalne)^ 
haranguing away tnere opposite the Woblpack.'' 

“ He has greatly influenced the villages between here and Dun- 
atalne. I’m afraid we aid not look them up enough.” 

“ We shall soon see their eftect. They will all be polled by two 
o’clock. We’re in the thick of it now, uncle” 

Yes,” said the old man with. a nervous laugh, ” we’re in for it 
now.” 

“Yes, and we sliall win, and win easily too,” said Walter. 

“I hope so.” 

“ 1 am sure of it, uncle. Boldham can’t get a majority without 
bribery, and both he and Shelman know that that won’t pay. Come 
in there! Who’s there?” 

The door opened, and a head Was slowly put into the room. The 
eyes in the head looked inquiringly at the two gentlemen, and the 
mouth emitted a slight cough. 

“Come in, man,” said Rivers impatiently. “ Kow, Hackett, 
what do you want? Out with it!” 

Mr. Bill Hackett, the husband of the charwoman before men- 
tioned, shambled slowly into the room and began twisting his rough 
moleskin cap nervously round and round in his fingers. 

“Now then, Hackett,” said alter, signing to his uncle to leave 
the conversation in his hands, “ what can we do for yoii?” 

“ Well, gen’l’men boath,” said Mr. Bill Hackett, who eked out 
the earnings of his better half— of whom he stood in mortal dread— 
by a little poaching, a little fowl breeding, a little gardening, a trifle 
of petty larceny, ana an infinitesimal modicum of honest work, “ 1 
be onwillin’ to ent’rupt you when you ’m so busy, on ’y you see, 

f en’l’men,” he added with a writhe in Sir Headingly’s direction, “ 1 
e a pore man 1 be, a’mazin’ pore man 1 be fore sure.” 

“ That’s your own fault for not working, my man,” said Walter, 
an(Ll don’t see what it has to do with us either.” 

Mr. William Hackett looked sheepish and puzzled. 

“ There’s a main lot o’ us pore chaps about, gen’l’men,” he said. 
’Tes surely hard if the gentlevoak can’t gie ’un a tarn when they 
4o want ’un like.” 

“ What do you mean, sir?” said Sir Headingly with ranch state- 
liness. It was bad enough to have been worried by this sort of 
voter in public, but to be intruded upon now and patronized by this 
fellow was too much. 

“ What du 1 mean, zui?” said Hackett. “ Whoy, what 1 mean 
Is this here — what’s the use o’ my vote to me, Zur ’Edin’ley ? 1 can’t 
yeat ’un, can 1? 1 can’t drenk ’un, can I? Thick ’ere ’lection 
^baint a gooin on right way noohows as 1 can zee,” he said, raising 
bis voice a little. 

“ Do you mean to stand there and tell me,” broke in Sir Head- 
ingly — “ To tell me you— you — you vagabond — ” 

“ Now lookee ’ere, Zur ’Edin’ley, vair words, zur, vair words. 
I’m a ’lector, I am. 1 a got my little bit o’ vreehold as my vather 
left 1 jest so much as you’ve a got your big vreehold. D’ye zee 
that, zur?— vair words vor 1, zur — I’m a 'lector, 1 am.” 

“Now just you listen to me, Mr. Hackett,” said Walter, agaii? 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 95 

motioning to his uncle to leave the man to him. “ I think I can 
understand what you want.” 

“ ’Tes likely, Muster Rivers, 'tes likely,” said the man,, with a 
grin. 

” How many voters have you brought round here with you on this 
errand?” 

^ The man hesitated. 

” Come, don’t waste my time. How many fellovfs did you leave 
at the bar down-stairs? Tom Purcell wa«i one, wasn’t he?” 

” Ees, zur, ’a wur.” 

Ot course he was, and Edwardes, of Springhill, and his son-in- 
law Macke rey make three. Now who else was there?— come, out 
with it!” 

Mr. Hackett, freeholder and elector, seemed rather cowed by the 
'• younger man’s bolder way of taking up the running, and answered, 
rather sheepishly, 

” Well, Muster Rivers, theny’s them three, an’ me an’ Bill Whis- 
’ ton,^ him as married my niece, and Jack Onslow, my missuses 
brother law, him as had her sester s’naa, an’ we all come in town 
together, us zix, an’ there’s Joe White down-stairs ’long wi’ ’em, as 
ain’t a voted neither not yet. That’s all, zur!” 

‘‘ Oh, that’s all, is it? Well, that isn’t much; stop a minute till 1 
put their names down, and yours at the head of them.” 

” My dear Walter,” began Sir Headingly, in a hoarse whisper. 

Walter answered rapidly in French which was not anxong the 
** ’lector’s ” accomplishments, 

” Let me manage this man, uncle, don’t you bother, he will get 
nothing from me:” 

” Now, Mr. Hackett,” he went on, ” I’ve got all these names 
down, and 1 make seven oLthem, w’hat’s the next thing?”^ 

“Well, zur,” said the poacher, brightening up as he fancied he 
spied his expected reward, “ the question be just thick-here-a-way, 
zur. Be they there votes any good to you, gen’l’men, or baintthey?”' 

“ That’s the question, as you say; well, suppose they’re not, what 
" then?” 

“ Spoasin’ they ’m not, did you zay. Muster Rivers?” said Hack- 
ett, wonderingly. 

“Yes, that’s what 1 said, you can have it the other way about, if 
you like, you can either suppose they are some good to us or no 
good to us, just which you please,” 

“ Well, then, zur, I’ll make zo bold as to goo fur to say as how 
they be zum good to ’ee.” 

“Goon.” 

^ “Well,” said Bill Hackett, in a deeply injured tone; “sure-?y^ 
Muster Rivers, you don’t want 1 to zay no more?” 

“ Oh, no, you might have stopped Some time ago, if you pleased.” 

“ Well, then, come, zur,” said the fellow, with a sudden burst, 
“ me an’ my mates is ready to goo and vote right, straight vor Zur 
Edin’ly, see now,” 

“ Well, why don’t you go.” 

“ But, Muster Rivers, baint we to get nothin’ for all these ’ere 
votes — why, look, see, there’s zeven on ’em.” ^ 

“ How much do you want, Hackett?” 


m 


AS AY02sr FLOWS. 


Well, zur, 1 reckon as tliey’m wnth a vive pound a-piece to me 
lor a-gettin’ on ’em for ’ee— there now!” 

“ And that is what you ^yantv — five times seven that makes thirty- 
five. 1 suppose you want five pounds tor your own vote?” 

Mr, William Hackett fairly laughed with glee at his success. 
What a simple thing it had been to manage “ the gentlevoak,” and 
how easy it^as to get favors fiom them at “ ’lection time ’’—why 
wasn’t there a ’lection every year instead of once in eighteen. He 
rubbed his hands, and answered the little query with a chuckle. 

” Well, 1 spoase zo, zur.” 

Well now, Hackett,” said Rivers, rising, and placing one foot 
on the chair, and pointing one finger 'airily at the chuckler, ‘‘just 
you listen to me a minute. ” 

” Cer’nly zur.” 

"‘ You’ve come here to-day with your precious seven votes and 
you expect us to give you thirty-five pounds for them—” 

There was an unpromising tone to these words, so Hackett list- 
ened open-mouthed and very open-eared, and made no reply. 

“Now you can just turn round and walk straight out of that 
door, for you won’t get one farthing.” 

Mr. Hackett ’s fingers lost their hold of the moleskin cap, and it 
fell to the floor. 

“ And, another thing I’ll tell you, now you’re here. You’ll go 
straight to the other side and make your offer there; try it on— you’ll 
find when you do come to vote that you are marked men; the other ; 
side won’t have you, for 1 shall see Mr. Boldham’s agent at once anti 
fell him of your offer, or at least my uncle will, you’ve made the 
offer to him, and I witness it. Boldham’s man will be afraid to poll 
you, for he knows that if you vote for him we shall be down on them 
for bribery, and win or lose, they get the worst of that. Try it and " 
.see. How much are the seven votes worth now, eh?” 

Mr. Hackett much chapfallen here. 

“ And how rauoh is your personal liberty worth? ^ Do you know | 
what you’ve been doing by offering to sell votes?” 

Mr. Hackett, much chapfallen still, gasjped out a negative. 

“ You don’t; go and ask alawyer then, or wait till the assizes, ^ 
for we shall prosecute you and your' mates tor doing it, and you’ll 
find out then— you especially. Now you can walk and tell your 
friends how nicely you’ve managed for them. Come— pick up your ' 
cap and march!” 

\ more deeply disgusted elector than Mr. William Hackett, free- 
holder, has never gone out of a committee- room, and nerer gone out 
with ^ more woe-begone and forlorn appearance.. 

ISir Headingly turned to his nephew with an air of relief. 

“ Well, you certainly managed that fellow remarkably well; 1 was ' 
Teally half afraid at one time,^W alter, that you w'ere actually going 
to treat with him. 1 wouldn’t have missed the vagabond’s discom- ' 
fiture'for the w^orld; of course, you intend to tell Boldham’s man?” 

“ My dear ancle, 1 am in fiopes that there will be no need for , 
doing so; if 1 am not very much mistaken, Hackett's terror, which 1 
fiatter myself was genuine, *will communicate itself to his comrades, 
hnless some Dunstalne man gets hold of him first, and that’s not ” 
wery likely in this house, and we shall have a deputation of them 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 97 

liere presently begging for mercy and promising to vote for ns. 
Hark, lean hear some one stumbling up the stairs now — Come in!’^ 

Two of the companions of the discomfited Bill Hackett appeared 
at the door and looked pleadingly at Sir Headingly. 

“ What is it, my men?” said that worthy. 

“ Whoy,” said the elder man Edwardes, and then he nudged his 
Bon-indaw, and remained silent. 

” Whoy,” said Mackerey, and also spake no more. 

“ You’ve come to ask for fifty pounds instead of the thirty-five 
that your precious friend Hackett wanted, I suppose,” said Rivers. 

” iSTo-a, zur, us baint,” said Edwardes, in a kind of mild despair, 
“ doan’t ’ee goo for to mex us up along o’ he, Muster Rivers, 
Twertn’t noo vault o’ ourn, zur.” 

” Well, what do you want to say; are you going to vote for us, or 
against us? Now, come — sharp— out with it— do you think I’ve 
got nothing to do but talk to you all day?” 

” We coom in town s’marning,” said the younger man, elbowing 
himself past his father-in-law, and standing sheepishly in front of 
him, “fur to vote fur yeou, zur; wall, on tli- road we meets Bill 
Hackett, an’ be says as how we in got to zee 5 "eou ’fore we goes to 
vote. Well, zur, he do Have we down-stairs, and when he do come 
back, he do tell we as how yeou be goin’ to gie we all up to'jail for 
hee’s vault; well, us baint goin’ fur to Ua’ that s’naa, zur, zoo 
we’en come up here for to tell 'ee as we be goin’ 'right away fur to 
gie ’ee our voates, and then we be goin’ whoam like; good-marnin’ 
to ’ee, gen’l’men,” added Mackerey, hurriedly backing past his 
father in-law, ” an’ good luck to ’ee, doan’t ’ee goo fur to be hard 
wi’ Bill Hackett, gen’l’men, he be apoor mackey moon zort on’t, zir, 
and 1 do think he’ve a got beer a’ready this marning. Good-marn- 
ing, gen’l’men. Come on, you;” and clutching the arm of his 
father-in-law, wiio was overpowered with respect at the clever vray 
in which his son in-law had extricated the party, he left the room, 
and Walter and the baronet were again left alone. 

Walter laughed quietly. , 

” I’ll see that those seven votes are registered, they may be use- 
ful; here is the latest state of the poll coming, uncle; you must go 
out on to the balcony and say a few words; well, Simmonds” (to a 
young man, who entered, bearing a paper), ” what news now?’ 

“Still ahead, sir; still ahead, Sir Headingly. Here are the fig- 
ures, sir. They’re pretty correct. I’ve kept a careful check over 
the registering clerks, and 1 think you will find this right.” 

The new record showed that Sir Headingly ’s position was still 
better than it had been at noon. The numbers now were: 


Cann 406 

Boldham 323 


Ringing cheers greeted this announcement when it was displayed 
from the balcony, and Sir Headingly, in response to the calls of 
his followers, stepped out and made a'sliort speech. The old man’s 
mettle was up, and he was elated with his success. 

As he and Walter drove up the street to the hustings they saw Mr. 
William Hackett and his fellow’’ electors standing at the polling-place 
and recording their votes. The clerks were shouting, “ Thank you 

4 


98 


-AS AYOTq- FLOWS. 

for Sir Headingly Cann’’ as each one gave in his adherence to the 
winning candidate, but the voters seemed as though they were not 
combining pleasure with their duty. 

We get those votes, thanks to your cleverness,” said the baronet^ 
looking gratefully at his nephew. 

” Oh, no, uncle; it was Bryceson who put me up to that trick. 
You must thank him when you see him. He was the man who gave 
,me that idea, and a capital one it was for us. Look at that fellow 
Hackett’s face. ” 

And indeed, Mr. Hackett went home to his better half in such a 
desponding, disgusted, and petulant humor that she was compelled 
' to break a stave of a butter-tub over his devoted head before she 
could restore him to anything like himself; and when she heard the 
result, the barren result, of his negotiations with the only candidate, 
he had dared to interview, she fell into so great a passion, and 
made such determined preparations lor breaking the rest of the tub 
in the same manner, that the foiled elector quitted his freehold in 
undignified haste, and sought to dispel his chagrin and disappoint- 
ment by a course of strong liquors and smoke. 

Meanwhile the hopes of the Yellow party declined as those of the 
baronet’s rose. At two o’clock the numbers were again exhibited, 
and again the Blue candidate was seen to be more than holding hia 
own. Good fight as Mr. Bbldham was making, he had great odds 
against him — the odds of prejudice and unwillingness to bring about 
change, and well liked as he himself was in the town, the personal 
popularity of the baronet was against him as well. The state of 
the poll at two o’clock was: 


Gann 534 

Boldham 410 


Well, Wilmslow,” said Mr. Boldham, cheerfully, as they met 
in the private room at the Wool pack, wWe they were joined by 
Shelman, who looked as amiable as usual, “ we seem to be out of 
it, eh? The old infiiience too much for us, I expect?” 

“ We have made a capital fight, for a first struggle. Y'ou will 
certainly have over five hundred votes, and that is wonderful for a 
little plac6 that has for forty years been represented by the other 
party, and has gone eighteen years without a contest at all. 1 feel 
much encouraged, and 1 am suie you will receive the congiatula- 
tions of the party on your gallant battle.” 

“Well, well, we mustn’t despair. As you say, we have stirred 
up the other people a bit, and they must know now that they can’t 
expect always to have matters their own way.” 

“We must have an association as soon as this is over,” said Shel- 
man. 

“ Do jmu think Gann’s people are ^better organized than ours?” in- 
quired the member for Dunstalne. 

“ Oh dear no,” replied Shelman, “ they never dreamed of a con- 
test. The news was like a thunderbolt in the market-place. We 
posted our bills at night, you know, and next morning we were can- 
vassing. Oh, no, we had rather the start of them, in fact. Kivers 
has worked well, of course. ” 


AS AVO]^' FLOWS. 99 

“ But not belter, 1 am sure, than you have, Mr. Shelman. 1 must 
felicitate you on your first efiort as an electioneering agent.’' 

Bhelman bowed. 

“ The town seems quiet, that’s one thing I’m very glad of,” said 
Boldham. 

” It won’t be very quiet after four o’clock,” said Shelman, 
sharply. ” There are a lot of quarrymen in town, and they’re drink- 
ing pretty freely, and so are most of the country people. The roughs 
about here, too, have got the idea into their heads that there would 
be plenty of occupation and heaps of money for all of them if the 
railway came here, and that Cann is trying to keep it away; and 1 
shouldn’t wonder if they let him know it before the day is out.” 

Mr. Boldham looked grave. ” 1 trust not,” he said. ” 1 should 
be very grieved if there were any violent scenes in the town after the 
poll is closed. 

'‘Well, we* must hope for the best,” said Shelman, carelessly. 
“ iSow, uncle, 1 am going round to the polling place again, and I 
sha’n’t return here till after four o’clock.” 

Shelman did not remain long at the polling-place ; he set oflf up 
the town in a few minutes,* and visited several of the houses. He had 
n short interview with Messrs. Jack Onslow and Bill Whiston, two 
worthy members of the family of the hen pecked Bill Hackett. 
These two gentlemen had imbibed just enough to make them ex- 
tremely cross with their disappointment, and to ha\e disarmed them 
of any caution. He listened to their tale and then condoled with 
them, recommended them not to go home yet, but to wait till the 
evening, and assured them that they had been shamefully treated. 

A little after three o’clock he mounted his horse, which was kept 
saddled and ready for him at the Woolpack, and rode again to 
the market-place. The town was getting a little tired of this electioii 
plaything, and the hoisting of the last hour’s numbers only partially 
aroused the crowd; they were; 


Cann 597 

Boldham 459 


There wa^ some cheering as Shelman rode up, and just at this 
time a large number of voters were registering. All who had not 
yet done so were pressing up to the poll, and the agents were very 
sharply watching for any last great move on the part of the enemy. 
For the first time in the day Bivers and Shelman met. They raised 
their hats to each other at first and then shook hands, at which the 
friends of both parties cheered and commented in various ways on the 
incident.^ 

“ That’s right,” shouted one. ‘‘ Let ’un shake hands afore they 
dovight.” 

” We’ll put thee up next time, Muster Shelman,” cried another, 
and the Yellows cheered. 

” So ’ee may,” roared a brazen-lunged Blue, ” an’ we’ll put Mus- 
ter Rivers whur we be a-puttin’ ’s uncle neaow,” which was the 
signal for acclamation by the Blue party, and the Blue song was 
loudly raised, to be replied to when a line of it had been sung and 
roared by the Yellow version. The bands blared defiance at one an- 


100 AS AYO^sr PLOWS. 

other, the banners waved and the crowds hurrahed, as if noise and 
color would yet alter the fortune of the day. 

But although the votes of the last hour were pretty evenly distrib- 
uted, and although to make their minority as small and their defeat 
as creditable as possible Mr. Boldham and his lieutenants brought, 
up eveiy available unit of their forces, it was of no avail. Four 
o’clock struck, the mayor declared the poll closed, and the election 
was over. It was not long before the official report was known,- 
and Mr. Sennett announced the result of the day’s struggle: 


Cann....... 665 

Boldham -512 


But Avonham’s troubles were not over for that time; the worst of 
the day was to come. 


CHAPTER Xlll. , 

A YERY ROUGH EVENING. 

The one inhabitant of Avonham who was devoutly glad that the- 
business of the day was done was the mayor. He had discharged 
his duties that day most ably and courteously, and to the satisfaction 
of everybody connected with the election, he had been thanked by 
both the candidates in the set speeches which each had made on the 
declaration of the result, and he sought his home self-satisfied, but 
intensely weary; never was man so glad of slippers and loose coat; 
he descended to his cellar for a bottle of his choicest wine, and sat 
down to his dinner with a feeling, of intense gratitude for his deliver- 
ance from the turmoil of the day. His meal finished, and the bottle 
half, or perhaps a little more than half, emptied, Mr. Mayor placed 
his legs on a chair, carefully adjusted his silk handkerchief over his 
head, and slept the sleep of the hard-worked just man, after the 
manner of his forefathers. Doubtless if he could have removed the 
roofs of the houses of the burgesses over whom he that year held 
sway, and peeped Asmodeus-liRe, into their rooms, he would have 
seen many a one just as tired of the afiair as he was himself, and 
seeking to forget the derangement which the town had suffered, in 
very much the same comfortable way as his worship. Had the 
place been left to its own devices, and had none but the real electors 
been consulted as to the way in which the rest of the evening 
should be spent, there would have been little difference between the 
close of that day and the evening of any great market, and the white 
boards of the polling-booth, and the election posters, still covering 
the walls in all diiections, would have been the sole remaining signs 
of the bygone contest. Every one would have gone gravely and 
peaceably to his business again, one to his farm and another to his 
merchandise, as the good old Scriptural phrase puts it, and the 
election would have been comfortably stowed away in people’s 
memories, to serve, perhaps, as a topic of conversation for many a 
future day, but to trouble the town no more. 

-It would have been with it as it was periodically with the river; 
for eight months in the year the Avon flowed peacefully over its 
pebbly bed limpid and pure, for three months more it was swifter. 


AS AYOK FLOWS. ! 101 

deeper, and, as the country-folks called it, “ miiddly-Iike,” and 
very often during^ the one remaining month of the year, or at any 
rate during a great part of it, the Avon would assert itself, would 
come plashing and tumbling into the houses in the lower part of the 
town, driving the inmates to upstairs rooms to be rescued in boats, 
swimming the family wash-tubs and large crockery merrily round 
the ground floor, and Anally leaving an inch deep deposit of mud 
on the boards and the street pavement outside, return to its bed tor 
another eleven months. Nothing was ever done; the town-fathers 
did not dream of raising the banks and keeping it oiit, they were 
perfectly acquainted with its ways and did not hbed its winter 
vagaries; 3^ou see it was their own river and they understood it. So 
with the'election — for eighteen years the tide of events had flowed 
on peacefully, occasionally local excitement had raised ripples on 
the stream, and now the election had come, and the tide of events 
slopped over and flooded the minds of the township, just as 
the river flooded its houses. And just as the floods were for- 
gotten yearly, when the river resumed its peaceable behavior, so 
would the election have been forgotten if the Avonhamites had been 
left to themselves. But there were outside influences at work and 
pressure from without, and the town was destined to be flooded this 
time in a manner which would not easily fade out of the memories 
of its inhahiiants. 

The inns, both great and small, were full; at the George there 
was jubilation, at the Woolpack irritation, and cogitation at the 
Bear. The Blue party celebrated their victory by much singing of 
songs, much shaking of hands, and draining of glasses and cans; 
the Yellows were no less noisy, were indeed, even louder, but not so 
hearty ; and the customers at the Bear were noisy, bi*t only conver- 
sationally SQ^ the two parties met there more, the ground was neutral 
and argument more rife, but the frequenters of the hotel were of the 
better class, and whatever discussion went forward was carried on 
decorously and without heat. The general feeling seemed to be 
that there hacfbeen a much closer contest than was expected, that a 
majority of no more than a hundred and fltty-three was calculated to 
cloud the victory of the Blues with some degree of apprehension for 
a seat which had been deemed so secure. However, tire Blues did 
not seem cast down, ^hey took their victory as they found it, and 
were quite satisfied. “ So long as they won,” their leaders said, 
” that was enough for them.” Mr. Boldham had been the strong- 
est man they would ever have arrayed against them, and no other 
would have got the votes he did. Meanwhile, in the small inns and 
beer-shops, the roughs of the town, the quarrymeh from the down, 
and the Dunstalne mob had collected and were singing, and danc- 
ing, and drinking, and fast working themselves up to the point where 
mischief begins* in these matters. 

It was about eight o’clock, and still perfectly light, when out of 
a beer-shop in the neighborhood of the canal wharf, the favorite 
resort of the bargees who worked the fly-boats w'hich brought 
Avonham the most of its London and Bristol merchandise, came 
pouring a stream of half-tipsy roughs, who made a ring and sur- 
rounded a Dunstalne man and an Avonham man, who, having 
differed as to the. number of times Nelson defeated the ” Hemperor 


102 


AS FLOWS. 

Bonyparty,” or the age ot the “ Duke (there is hut one duke for 
the West of Jiingland men), were going to settle the matter in the 
good old English fashion. Hot and flushed with drink and excite- 
ment they came rushing out into the open place next the wharf and 
watched the varying fortunes of the struggle^ encouraging each his 
man with loud shouts, dancing, howling, disputing, but never 
interfering with either of the two bruisers who pummeled awav at 
one another for half an hour until the Dunstalne man yielded and 
was led away by his friends, whilst the Avonham hero was seized 
by his own party, taken off in triumph to the house where the dispute 
had originated, and regaled at the expense of his admiring towns- 
men. From that time and from this slight incident was Avonham 's 
peace once more taken away. The Dunstalne men who had come 
into the town that day were all on the losing side, the party they 
had assisted had been defeated, and the tide ot generosity which 
would have flowed so freely from winners was trickling from losers 
much too slowly and in much too scanty a volume to please the re- 
cipients who had imagined, the wish being father to the thought, 
that they were coming into a land of rejoicing and plenty, where, 
after assisting in beating the^ common foe, they would be bounti- 
fully regaled at the expense ot the “ emancipated slaves who had long 
groaned beneath his yoke," to quote one of their most prominent 
orators; but the Yellows in Avonham were not dispensing their 
favors as conquerors. The Dunstalne men found that the joyful 
libations of the victors and the despair- begotten draughts of the 
conquered were different, things entirely. It was therefore with a 
great access of delight that a Dunstalne man who, having met in the 
street three ot his comrades tired and thirsty, had taken them into 
the Five Stars*lo eat and drink, received in response to his inquiry 
as to what was to pay, the answer from the usually gruff landlord, 
“ Kothin’ t’ you, nur noo one else as is on right side." 

“ Right side’s bin wrong side t’day," said an Avonham man sit- 
ting near. 

“ ’T won’t be that thui way long, thoo," replied the Dunstalne 
man; “here, coom drink you, suir, an’ let t’oother chap drink; 
there’s npwt to pay, thee sayst, fill another pot, then." 

The landlord readily complied. 

“Matey," said one Avonham man to another, up street, “dost 
knoo Sam YVillums be gi’en away aal hees beer fur nowt?" 

“Noo!" said the other, galvanized into sudden interest, “ whur?" 

“ Down to Vive Stars, mun; will ’ee coom an' ha’ a drop o’t?" 

“ Ah, will 1 nuther?” said the other, wiping his lips. 

But they were disappointed, the landlord was obdurate, they 
were “ dirty blue^;" they were informed, and they were expelled 
with more force than politeness. Rejected in this. rough manner, 
they sought counsel and help of their friends, and, collecting a force 
of their allies, drove furiously at the Five Stars; the windows were 
broken in, the Dunstalne men inside roughly handled, the heads of 
two of the landlord’s barrels staved in, and the landlord himself 
flung out into the street, whilst the invaders ran riot in his bar and 
cellar. Bitterly regretting his action in refusing liquor which was 
so soon to be taken from him, he sought advice and counsel of his 
cronies and ot his recently expelled customers, and having been re- 


AS AVON FLOWS. 


1^3 


enforced, made another’ attack upon his own house and reinstated 
his free customers at the expense of all his windows and bar- fittings. 

This time, however, the combat was carried into the enemy’s 
country, and the Blues were chased clown the street, until they 
reached the shelter ot a little house called the Bwan. Alas 1 this 
proved the destruction of the Swan, for although the fugitives 
managed to make good their escape and fiee through the back way, 
yet the house was given up to the vengeance of their pursuers, the 
blue flag torn down, the whole of the windows broken, and the 
bar wrecked; and then the Yellow mob, by this time a couple of 
hundred strong, and re-enforced every minute, paraded the upper 
side streets of the town, and saluted every Blue house with a volley 
of stones which went smashing through the windows, scaring the 
inrnates almost to death. Presently, not contented with alarming 
this poition of the town, they marched in fair order, but with im- 
mense noise,’ into the open space in front of the church, where they 
halted tor a moment as it irresolute, and then raised deafening 
shouts of defiance of their enemies. In a minute or two they were 
joined by all of the Y ellow party, who were ready tor mischief, a 
considerable contingent who were ot no party at all, but ripe for any 
riot, and a sprinkling ot Blues, who found, to their great disgust, 
that their halloaing and whooping on behalf of their side had not 
been so productive of solid and liquid benefits as they had antici- 
pated at the commencement ot the day ; finding then that nothing 
was to be gained by peace they gravitated easily to the riotous fac- 
tion and were soon as prominent as any ; it is, perhaps, unnecessary 
to sa}^ that Mr. Hacketl and his disgusted 'contingent, having drunk 
themselves pot-valiant, were of this party. 

Some unconscious road surveyor had aided the Goddess ot 
Discord by leaving at the side ot the street three heaps of stones, 
with which it was intended to repair the road at the lop of the to^n. 
Certain it was that their mission to- night was not to repair the 
town; hastily the mob armed themselves with the missiles, and be- 
fore the affrighted inhabitants had time to protect their windows 
wrth shutters, the crashing of glass and the shrieks ot terrified 
women proclaimed that the riot was assuming formidable propor- 
tions. in five minutes the town was in a state of panic, and the 
mob were masters of the situation. 

The mayor, hastily summoned, showed both courage and good 
sense; he went at once into the street and endeavored to reason with 
thelmob, but his eloquenee was vain, he was driven back to his 
house, but escaped by his garden, and making his way to the market- 
place, surrounded by a few faithful, followers, there read the Riot 
Act, that ancient ceremony which still ranks among our most 
cherished and useless remedies against Force. But the mayor did 
better; he sent his own man on a good horse to the railway station, 
at which was the nearest telegraph office, and dispatched a telegram 
for troops. All over the town the householders were barricading 
their dwellings, conveying their women and children into the back 
rooms, and preparing to make what stand they could against the 
mad crew, who were wrecking the town. There was no time to 
sw;ear in special constables; many of the rioters were armed in some 
fashion with staves and pokers, hatchets and stones, and it would 


104 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 

need a well-organized and trained body to» cope with them; the 
local police were so few in number as to be helpless though they 
did their duty well, and so the work of destruction went on, and 
the unimpeded ruffians were gx)ing systematically through the town, 
breaking the windows, and destroying, as far as they could, all the 
propel ty of the voters for Sir Headingly Cann. The Bear was 
attacked, and though the ex-soldier landlord fought gallantlj" for his 
property and made two or three of the party wish they had not 
joined the Iray, he was wounded by a stone and dragged into his 
house bleeding and exhausted, only ^ust in time for his servants to 
close the ponderous ^rateway door, which, being built of massive 
oak planks and iron clampings, resisted all efforts to break it down. 

Foiled in this attempt, the rioters next divided themselves into 
three portions, one continuing down the main street toward the 
bridge, one crossing into the church-yard to attack the house beyond, 
and the third, which we will follow, to commence the destruction 
in South Street. Acting under some instructions from some one in 
authority, they passed Mr. Bompas’s house without injury, but 
smashed in the panes of the two next to it, and then, with loud 
shouts, crossed the road to the gate of the Coombes. It was known, 
of course, that the proprietor had no vote, but there seemed to be an 
understanding that something special was to be done here, for a 
louder outcry than had yet been made was raised as they halted 
before the gate. But here, for the first time, they were confronted 
and ^co wed. As Tom Purcell, the leader, a brawny six foot ruffian, 
thrust his hand through the gate to get at the lock, he started back 
with an awful scream of pain and fell fainting into the amis of his 
nearest follow’er, his arm broken at the wrist. There was a moment 
of indecision and then a voice from inside the gate, cried, in deep, 
firm tones : 

“ What do you want here, you vagabonds?” 

There was a paiise, and a silence, and then some one who had made 
a strategic movement to the rear on seeing the fate of the unlucky 
ringleader said, “ Look ’ow ’ee’ve as sarved pore Tom Purceirs 
arm.” 

” I’ll serve your head the same fashion if you put it this wmy, 
young man,” said the deep voice again. The figure of the speaker 
was not seen. 

“ Break down th' giate,” shouted Some one (also in the rear). 

“ Ohl you want the gate open, do you?” said the same voice, 
and the gate swung inward on its hinges. “ Now then!” 

A man rushed forward, but in a moment came fiying back and 
crashed down on the pavement as though a horse had kidied him. 
Next, another peeping in cautiously to see where the owner of this 
mysterious voice was coiicealed, received a rap on the head w hich 
made him doubt for a minute or two whether he had a head left to 
rap. This was a chilling reception for the crowd, though a very 
■vvarni one for those who had sampled the fare which the garrison of 
the Coombes was providing for them. Obviously the only thing to 
do w'as to let lly at the windows, and not to come to close quarters 
with those at the gate, so lour or five of the fellows drew^ back to 
the other sirle of the street and threw. Tnere was a shiver of glass 
and a cheer from the crowd. But it was rudely interrupted by a 


AS AyOK PLOWS. 


105 

sudden cbarye from the gate. Galbraith, who now showed himeelf 
for the first time, came first, followed by the negro and Bryceson. 
Dashing at the men nearest to the gate, they struck boldly and 
fiercely each at his man, and, one fellow was seized in the negro’s 
powerful grip, hauled half-way across the road, and flung down into 
the garden. Ihen Galbraith and Bryceson retired to the gate and 
waited for the foe to advance. But' the foe had no stomach for the 
fray. Evidently these were not long-sufitering citizens, but danger- 
ous men w|io meant fighting. There was an undignified scufSe, 
and a great show of assisting off their wounded, and, with a .part- 
ing yell, the portion of the rioters who had undertaken the assuajt of 
f^outh Street withdrew, taking with them their unfortunate leader 
wi-th a broken arm, the inquisitive peeper with a “ contused ” brain 
pan, and three others wth substantial marks and sanguinary proofs 
of the courage and determination of the garrison. Entirely occupied 
with their own safety, they forgot all about the unfortunate pris- 
oner, but left him beliind in a most uncomfortable position, lying 
on the gravel path, with the heavy toot of the negro on his chest. 

“Pick him up, Ned,” said Brj’^ceson, “and take him into the 
house. We’ll see who he is.” 

The victim was jerked upon his feet, and hustled into the house 
with a roughness that surprised him and took away all power of 
resistance even if he had intended any. Ned pushed him along the 
hall and into a room, where Bryceson and Galbraith followed with 
a light. 

“ Now then, turn him round, and let’s have a look at him.” 

Ned twisted the captive round to face the lamp, and there, blink- 
ing and shivering with light and fright combined, was Mr. Adolphus 
Carter. 

Galbraith looked sternly at him as he crouched under Ned’s 
powerful hand. Then turning to Bryceson, he said, 

“ Why, this fellow is one of Mr. Bompas’s clerks. What’s' the 
history of this?” 

“ Ask him, answered Bryceson, laying down his formidable 
club. “ Now then, sonny, speak up! Give him a shake up, Ned. 
That’s right. Now then, what were you doing out there wrecking 
and plundering, eh?” 

Mr. Adolphus had already expended all the stock ^f courage 
which he had ever possessed, lie burst into tears, and made no 
answer. Ihe only movement, either, of which he seemed capable, 
was that of flinging himself at the feet of the two friends and 
groveling on the carpet before them. They looked at each other 
for a moment; and burst into a roar of laughter, in which the negro 
joined. 

“ Get up, you unhappy little cur,” said Galbraith, contemptuous- 
ly. “ What harm have 1 ever done you or your ruffians, that you 
should attack my house? Ned and WMter, as the street’s clear just 
walk overfo Mr. Bompas, offer him any assistance, and it you want 
me fire a shot, and I’ll be with you in a brace. If not, ask Mr. 
Bompas to step over here under youi escort. 1 should like him to 
see this object.” 

Mr. Bompas had been out to endeavor to assist his friend the 
mayor, and by dint of much courage and moral suasion had per^^ 


106 


AS AVON PLOWS. 


suaded some ol the crowd to disperse. He had left the mayor at 
the Town Hall, and now came down South Street to see what had 
happened there. The emissaries met him at his own door. He 
came over at once to the Coombes. 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Bompas,” said Galbraith, as he met them at 
the open door. “ Lively time, for a country town. Just come in 
here; we’ve got something belonging to you, 1 think.'’ 

“ Something belonging to me, my dear sir?’' said Bompas. 

“ les,” said Galbraith, ushering him into the room, and pointing 
to the pale-faced, cringing hound who was blubbering in the corner. 
“ That thing there’s yours, isn’t it.” 

; Mr. Bompas held up his hands in astonishment as his articled 
pupil again flung himself down on his knees before his captors and 
his master. 

” In the name of all that’s unfortunate,” said Bompas, ” what is 
the meaning of this?” 

” This gentleman has turned rioter, it seems, Mr. Bompas, and 
-brought a score or a couple ol score vagabonds down street just now 
to wreck my house. My friend and 1 and my servant have made 
our defense good, and this is a prisoner we took in a sally.” 

‘‘ He was lackin’ up a rock,” said Ned, ” and he just done gone 
frown one. 1 picked him up an’ toted him in, and thar he is.” 

” You unhappy boy,” said Mr. Bompas, ” what induced you to 
join in this deplorable and ruffianly riot?” 

No answer from the weeper. 

How old is this interesting youth?” said Bryceson. 

‘‘ Between nineteen and twenty, 1 believe,” said Bompas. 

Ye— ye— ye~yes ! ’ ’ sobbed the object. 

“Now look here,” said Galbraith, sternly. “ Listen to me— get 
up oft that floor, and stop that howling.” Carter slowly rose. 

“ Now, you cowardly hound! who put you up to this outrage on 
me? you haven’t pluck enough, you oniserable cur, to have started 
it yourself— tell me that, and you shall walk out of this house with 
your employer, free; if you don’t, you shall spend your next night 
in jail, if 1 drag you there with my own hands. ”, 

Carter looked piteously at his master, but seemed unable to speak; 
there w^as a pause for a moment or two, and then Bompas spoke. 

“ Was there any one?” - 

“ No- -no — one put me u — u — p to if,” said Carter; “ 1 di — di — 
did it my — i— self.” 

“ Whose windows did your blackguards break up street?” said 
Bryceson. 

“ M -i— i ster Regler’s a — and Mr. Mo— o— dan’s.” 

“ Are your windows broken, Mr. Bompas?” 

“ No, my dear sir, they are, 1 am happy to say, intact; if this 
misguided young man had any influence over the crowd he may 
have exerted it for my benefit. Had you any such authority, 
Carter?” 

“Yes,” answered the prisoner. 

“ And what was the reason for the attack on Mr. Galbraith? 
This is an -election riot, and he has taken no part in the election and 
hasnoyote.” 


AS AVOX FLOWS. 107 

“ It was a m! — is — is — take ot tlie mob. 1 was try- i — ing to stop 
them.” 

“ That's a lie/’ broke in Ned, “ you jus’ done f rowin’ one rock, 
an’ when 1 pick you up ’n run in de garden wif you you was pickin’ 
up ’nudder one. You bad scoun’iel — w’at you wan’ int’fere wi’ my 
master foM he nebber int’fer^ wi’ j^ou, you bad li’l — li’l—li’l— tater- 
bug!’ Ned had fished about for this word a few’ times and brought 
it out with a scream that made Carter jump again. 

“ Mr. Bompas,” said Galbraith, “ there’s some mystery in this — 
this lellow’s tale is not true and your suggestion as to my having 
nothing to do with the election is a very good one; he has some 
motive which 1 don’t tathom. Where can I put him into a sate jail 
tor the night— this town’s no good? Ned, saddle the horses, we’ll 
start at once. ” 

“ Ml. Galbraith,” said Bompas, “ will you deign to listen to me for 
a few moments it 1 venture to urge something in mitigation ot your 
suggested plan?” 

“ My dear sir, whatever you say will, 1 am sure, from all I’ve ever 
seen or heard of you, be straightforward and honorable; you -may 
speak freely and with authority here if you choose.” 

” I thank you, sir! Gentlemen, I have known the father of this 
unhappy lad for many years; he is a clergyman who is known and 
respected all over Marlshire. The occurrence of to-night, to find 
his son in this position, would break his heart, and this young man’s 
mother’s heart, too. The lad is but young, gentlemen — he may 
have been led astray — his brain may have been turned by the de- 
plorable turmoil ot this hor — ri — ble day which 1 wish the town had 
never seen. Now, if you will consent to release him conditionally 
on his confessing tome the reasons which actuated him in his insane 
attempt on your house, 1 will use all my endeavors to induce him to 
make them known to me or to his father. My dear Mr. Galbraith, 

1 ask this not as any tavor to myself, but in m<3rcy to my two old 
friends, his father and mother, who would be heart-broken it they 
knew of their son’s wickedness.” The good old fellow’s voice 
trembled as he made his appeal. Galbraith was moved by his plea. 

” God forbid, Mr. Bompas, that 1 should add any sorrow to an 
old man’s gray hairs; let it be as you say, with all my heart, though 
the vagabond isn’t worth the trouble of a good man’s help, and per- 
haps he’s not worthy an honest man’s enmity. Take my advice, 
young sir, and go home to your father; keep out of Avoirham tor a 
week or two, 1 dare say Mr. Bompas will give you a holiday, and 
keep out ot my sight for the rest of the century if we live so long* 
Open the door, Ned, and let him go.” And Mr. Adolphus Carter, 
with downcast eyes and abject mien, crawled out of the room. 

” Mr. Bompas,” said Biyceson, heartily, ” you’re a brick! Harry, 
Mr. Bompas and the mayor have been trying to restore order in this 
place — it they can get filty fellows together they can keep the.peace 
— if not, half the town’ll be down; we must help, too, old boy. 
We’ve seen many worse troubles than this, Mr. Bompas. Ned, mix 
us three stiff horns, and then come out and fight.” 

Ned grinned at this, and speedily appeared with the desired re- 
freshments. 


108 AS AYOK FLOWS. 

“We none of us want Dutch courage, Walter/’ said Galbraith, 
smiling, as he took his glass. 

“ No matter,” said the irrepressible Walter, “we shall be none 
the worse tor it any way Now, Mr. Bompas, we’ll see you safe. 
Come along, Ned. 

They left the house perfectly deserted and dark, at which Mr. 
Bompass made some demur, but was answered that the house might 
look after itself, and fhat they were not afiaid that, after their first 
reception, the rioteis would return. Mr. Bompas could not but 
admire the <?alm and quiet manner and the total absence of fear in 
the young men. Ihey walked swiftly down to the town hall, 
where the mayor and his followers were. 

“ Come in to re-enforce you, Mr Mayor,” said Bryceson. 

“ 1 am in hopes they have partially dispersed,” said the mayor. 

“ Not a bit of it,” said some one; “ just hark to that row!” 

A loud shout resounded up the street. 

“ They’ve got down to Killett’s house,” said a young fellow, 
grasping his heavy stick; “ let’s go and help him.” 

“ Come along,” said Galbraith, and he, Bryceson, the negro, and 
half a score young fellows started down the street. As they arrived 
on the outskirts of the crowd, they perceived that a regular siego 
\vas being laid to the ex-mayor’s house, that the besieged and two 
of his men were holding out stoutly, and that he had just saluted 
the mob with a pail of scalding water, this at first had provoked a 
laugh, but the' rioters were in an ugly temper, and a quarry-man, 
elbowing his way to the front, shouted to one of his mates, 

“ Gi’ me hold o’ thy crowbar, thee fool, doesn’t thee see corner 
. stwun b’ th’ house here? gf me hold, we’ll ha’ th’ lot deawn in vive 
minutes.” 

But as he dealt his third heavy stroke, trying to wedge the point 
of his crowbar in between the stone and brick work, a heavy cudgel 
descended on the side of his head, and he fell prone. At the same 
time a cheer was raised, and the rescue party , -attacking the mob in 
rear, dashed through it, smiting right and left as they passed, and 
facing them, fairly drove them back. They were at once joined by 
Killett and his men, who ranged themselves alongside them. The 
giant forms of the butcher and the negro, and the determined atti- 
tude of the rest, made the crowd hesitate for a moment. Next, a 
man dashed out at Galbraith, who was on the right of the party-— 
he had never made a greater mistake or a worse selection in his life. 
Before he could strike a blow, he was seized by the throat, flung 
down on the pavement, lifted up aad held a momenf over his ad- 
versary’s head, and, then hurled violently forward on to the heads 
of some of the rearmost of the crowd; a feat like that had never 
been seen in AvoUham; she had had her famous wrestlers, and was 
the center of as tall and stalwart a race as any that lives in England, 
but never a man there had seen such a show of strengtli as that; 
even for such a foe there was for a moment a buzz of applause and 
a murmur of commendation that almost drowned the cries of the 
crowd. Not a few were the immediate deserters of the cause. 
Throwing stones and breaking Blue windows might .be very good 
fun, but to be dashed on to a pavement and then sent spinning into 
the air at men’s heads was a little too cooling for the hottest enthu- 


AS A.YO:^ FLOWS, 


109 


siasm to resist; and when the little band, headed by the very man 
who had shown twice this night that he would not be attacked with- 
out sharp retaliation, dashed forward with a cheer into the front 
ranks' of the crowd, and by dint of sheer strength drove them back 
half across the road, halt the fellows felt the game was getting too 
oxciling, and fled. The rest of the combat was short, sharp and 
decisive. Twenty people, who had only before wanted leaders to 
attack the rioters, now joined the fra.y, aud in a few minutes the 
largest of the three crowds, which w-ere doing so much damage to 
the town, was dispersed. As they straggled past the town hall, 
pursuers and pursued mixed up together, the loud voice of the mayor 
was heard proclaiming that he had sent for troe)ps, and calling on 
all to go home. A sudden thought struck Bryceson; he whispered 
a few words in the ear of Galbraith^ who laughed and nodded at his 
friend as he disappeared round the corner of South Street. 

Five minutes later as a second crovrd was forming in a threatening 
manner before the town hall, high above all the storm of cries and 
shrieks, rang out the sharp clear sound ot a bugle. It silenced the 
mob as if by magic; again it gave out its warlike message, and that 
settled the matter, “ The soldiers 1 the soldiers!” was the universal 
«ry, and one wild rush was made to the top of the town, where the 
leaders of the riot had determined to face any troops which might be 
sent. For an hour they stood on their guard, shouting defiance, 
but doing no more mischief. It was one o’clock _in the morning, 
and all were pretty well worn out, when the first troops arrived in 
answer to the repeated appeals of the mayor; without in the least 
exaggerating the danger, he had mrylesuch alarming representations 
that two companies of the Guards had been hastily dispatched by 
a special train. They marclied into the town, and the riot was at 
an end. In every direction those concerned in the work of destruction 
and plunder scattered ; a strong force of county police followed the 
soldiery next day, and the magistrate sat daily receiving information 
and grunting warrants for the arrest of ringleaders. The townsmen 
, breathed freely once more. 

‘‘By Jove, sir!” said an officer of the Guards to Bryceson, as he 
laughed at the bugle stratagem, and praised Ned’s mixed drink, 
““ 1 never saw a town in the state this was; what a little spitfire of a 
place it must be; upon my word it only wanted a little blood in the 
'Streets and a few broken accouterments scattered about here and 
there, to look like a street on the north side of Sebastopol.” 

Thus was the Avonham election lost and won, and thus did they 
fight after it was over. It will be many days before the memory of 
that day fades from the minds ot Marlshire men, and over many a 
winter’s tire the battle is fought again. Sometimes the speaker 
waxes indignant as he tells ot the damage and plunder done on that 
wild night, sometimes he chuckles as he relates how glass flew and 
woodwork crashed in the houses ot t’other side. In some cases there 
^re scars to show in proof of what was done, and here and there a 
^ ^ man may be pointed out who suffered imprisonment or fine tor his 
jshare of the mad work. And for years one man would scowl and 
V frown and mutter oaths under his breath as he passed a certain 
, gate in South Street, where r^pmor said some of the fighting had 





110 AS AVON FLO 

taken place. He was a tall, dark man witli a coarse and vagabond^ 
ish set ot features, who, when he came before any magistrates in 
those parts, gave the name of Thomas Purcell. He had only one 
arm. 

CHAPTEPv XiV. 

LUCY’S PARTNER. 

Profoundly grateful to the head of their family were Mrs. 
Bompas and her three daughters when the news readied them of 
the stirring transactions which had been taking place in Avonham 
during their absence. The country papers had been full of praise of 
Mr. Bompas and the mayor, both ot whom, it was stated, had acted 
most couraireously in the cause of order, and even the London papers 
had followed in the same strain, but w ith less diffuseness; the little 
Marlshire town had suddenly earned tor itself a most unenviable 
reputation; really the quietest and most decorous of places, it had 
been likened to a volcano full of smoldering and dangerous atoms, 
and liable at any moment to burst forth in desolating riot and lay 
the country waste. The young ladies^ waxed not a little indignant 
over this comparison, and lamented the town’s disgrace, whilst they 
rejoiced in the praise of their sire. When that worthy — who stiick- 
valiantly to bis post beside his friend the mayor till all the results 
of the row were investigated; till the prominent rioters had been 
punished, and the town freed from the military control which for 
two or three days was deemed necessary, and indeed until Avonham, 
but for the glaziers, was quiet %ain — when Mr. Bompas joinrd his 
family in London he was receiv^ with open arms, not only as one 
who had escaped a great danger, but as one who had comported 
himself right valiantly therein."* He found an auditory^ eager to hear 
all the news of the fray, and encouraged, unchecked and uninter- 
rupted, he poured out his warlike tale. 

To do Mr. Bompas justice, he was not given to boasting of his 
own exploits; he really and truly had amply deserved the encomium 
which Bryceson had passed upon him of being a “ brick,” and had 
acted lil^e lhe stout-hearted old fellow he was, but he made no great 
account of what he had done, and rather slurred over those parts of 
the narrative relating to his own share in the affray. He was fulf 
ot compliment toward his friend Sennett, and loud in praise of his 
two neighbors; he described the repulse of the first attack on the 
Coombes in glowing terms, and praised the coolness and courage of 
the young meq to the skies; and when he mentioned with the awe 
which the recollection of the affair still imposed, the herculean feat 
which Galbraith had performed with the unfortunate quarryman. 
his vocabulary of commendatory phrases gave out, and he could 
only say with uplifted hands, ” There, my dears, it was simply mar- 
velous. 1 could hardly credit my own eyes.” 

One matter the good old fellow did not mention to his daughters, 
and tliat was the ignoble part played in the disturbance by Adolphus 
Carter. He had been sorely exercised in mind about that unfortu- 
nate youth. He had ridden over, in company with his crony Millard 
(for he did not wish to let the mayor know of the matter whilst he 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


Ill 


'was engaged in his official capacity of punishing other riotei*s), to the 
father of the culprit, and the. trio had returned and called on Gal- 
braith, who had condoled with the father and promised to take no 
more notice of the matter, so that Adolphus was again seated in his 
employer’s office, a very sad and subdued young man indeed. Mr. 
Bompas, considering that sufflcienc had been done to humble his 
pupil, did not attempt to lower him still further in the eyes of his 
daughters. But, alas! what human foresight can prevent a woman 
from imparting her ideas. Mr. Bompas, who concealed the story 
from his daughters, unfolded it to his wife, and that good woman 
and mother hit the scent at once. 8he poured into the astonished 
ears of Mr. Bompas her elucidation of the mystery, and he was 
forced to accept it. Jealousy, and not politics, was at the bottom of 
the attack on Bouth Street. 

“ My dear Abel,” she said, “ of course it was nothing else; you 
needn’t go fishing for motives when they’re on the surface; he was 
jealous of those two young men coming to the house, though, to be 
sure, Mr. Bryceson has dropped in more often than Mr, Galbraith, 
and thought he could annoy them in that way: what a mischievous, 
ill-natured, spiteful little monkey he is.” 

Ah, luckless Adolphus! hitherto so eligible. It was an evil chance 
for you when this stranger came on your happy hunting-ground, it 
was worse when you conceived your scheme Of revenge and failed 
so ignominiously, but it was the worst of all when Mrs. Bompas 
took up arms against you. Papa may forgive, papa may forget, but 
with mamma arrayed against you, farewell to your hopes. 

Great was the surprise, and great the indignation among the young 
ladies next morning, when Mrs. Bompas, at the breakfast- table, told 
the tale of Gaiter’s attack on the Coombes and his overthrow. 
Which predominated it would be difficult to say, probably the sur- 
prise. There was a feeling of pity as the father described to his 
daughters the shock which his conduct had given to his father; there 
was a comic side to the picture, as he told them of the prisoner sob- 
bing and groveling on the floor between his stern captors, and a 
feeling of admiration for the forgiveness and leniency exhibited by 
Galbraith. When the girls were next together, in the absence of the 
old folks, they discussed the matter at length and with much spirit. 
Adelaide was specially warm on the unjustifiable attack on the 
Coombes, and declared that she would never speak to Carter again. 

” A mean little rascal,” she said, stamping her pretty foot and 
looking the essence of scorn; “ what did he jnean by it? Mr. Gal- 
braith had done him no harm, and papa says he doesn’t believe he 
had been in the town all day, so it couldn’t have been connected 
with the election. ” 

” And certainly,” said Louisa, ” he could have no cause for in- 
juring Mr. Bryceson.” 

” Of course not,” said Adelaide, “ gracious only knows what the 
little monster did mean.” 

” Will papa keep him, do you think?” said Louisa. 

‘‘Kotif 1 can persuade him to get rid of him, ” said Adelaide, 
“ an odious thing. 1 always thought there was something monkey- 
ish in the way he pranked himself up, and chattered and skipped 
about; I didn’t give him credit for so much mis(;hief though; 1 did 


112 


AS AYOiT FLOW^. 


think he was harmless enough; these parsons’ ^ons are always the 
worst, upon my w^ord they are. ’ ’ 

“ Papa didn’t say anything of Walter Kivers or Alfred Shelman 
in this matter. 1 wonder why these two heroes didn’t distinguish 
themselves in putting down the riot?” said Louisa. 

” 1 believe it was all the fault of those horrid Y ellows,” said Ade* 
laicle, ” and Alfred Shelman didn’t ^c^ttUo interfere. ” Bhe slightly 
flushed as she mentioned the name. 

And what about Walter Rivers, dear?” said Lucy, demurely. 

Adelaide flushed again. ‘‘ Papa didn’t say that either of them 
was in the riot. He certainly said, though, that the Yellows began 
it— wny should the Blues have lioted? They hadn’t lost-tlie elec- 
tion — Mr. Rivers might have tried to stop the disturbance, but—” 

” My deal,’’ said Lucy, composedly, ” Walter Rivers is not at all 
adapted for hurling people over the moon, and 1 should think wa& 
extremely averse to be made a missile ot= 1 can’t quite imagine him 
interfering in a row; no, 1 expect the pair of them stayed at home 
like good little men and took care of their uncles, leaving our inter® 
estins: neighbors to do the fighting. Every one to his trade.” 

I’m very glad at any rate that we were out of it,” said Louisa. 
“ It was an excellent idea of papa to bring us up here. 1 should 
like to take a peep at tne place, though, and see the damage done.” 

” Y'es,” said Lucy, ” and we missed the ofiQcers, too, not that it 
matters to you two spoons, but there might have been a chance for 
me?” 

” What do you mean by spoons?” 

‘ Whom are you calling spoons, Lucy?” 

This from both the elder sisters. Not with any imitation — oh;, 
dear, no— only the pretense of it. Lucy was ” chaffing,” but Lucy 
was the privileged satirist of the family, and it is not always unpleas- 
ant to be twitted in love matters. 

” Oh, my dears,” said Lucy, “do you think your little sister 
hasn’t eyes? ,Mi. Galbraith meets you, Addie, going to Beytesbury 
and convoys you home, to use dear papa’s phrase— well — what’s the 
consequence ewer since? Just let any one mention the man’s name 
suddenly when you’re sitting thinking— it’s like dropping a half- 
crown in a beggar’s hand — only the beggar doesn’t blush and doe^ 
thank you — ” 

“ Lucy, you’re a goose.” 

“ And then there’s Lou.” 

“Now you let me alone, Miss Lucy.” 

“ Just ask some one to watch your face and report on it the next 
time that Mr. Bryceson walks in — to see mamma, of course— to get 
something for his lungs, his lungs, indeed. Louisa, my dear child,, 
you’re a much better doctor than mamma is. You know his lungs 
are all right, don’t you? Of course you do! It’s the heart that's 
affected, and you’re looking after it very skillfully, my love.” 

“ Addie, what shall we do with this girl? she’s incorrigible.” 

“ 1 don’t know. Look at her now, Lou. Lucy, who ever taught 
you to wink? You’d better not practice in London.” 

- Miss Lucy slowly opened the eye which she had really closed in a 
very knowing manner at the end of her speech, and nodded her head 
very slowly and sagely two or three times, then she rose and clasp- 


AS AYOK FLOWS. IIS 

ing AcielaMe round the waist gave her a sisterly kiss, next turned to 
Louisa and did the same for her, all without speaking a word. 

The two elder sisters turned very red, and — kissed each other. 
The sweet little secret was out; the thin veil was drawn aside by the 
hand of this laughing sister. I'hat golden hour of life was begun 
which follows the first confession of love. 

Then came papa, eager for sight-seeing, and with many plans lor 
their holiday together. Papa was in the best of humors. Papa was 
not at all afraid of the Regent Street shops. Papa was eager to 
please his pretty daughters, and ready to pull his purse-strings wide. 
If the sisters did not describe their parent by the epithet applied to 
him by the absent Bryceson, yet surely they used the nearest femi- 
nine equivalent when they were surveying his purchases at the end 
of his first day in town. Nor was he content to visit shops alone. 
It was only necessary to mention a place of amusement or exhibi- 
tion, and the cheery old fellow trotted off to secure the best places 
and the coziest conveyances to and from the show. 

“ My dear,'’ he said to his wife, as they sat in the back of the 
box at the opera, and watched their three girls entranced by the 
music and spectacle, “we do not visit the great metropolis every 
day, and it shall not be my fault if the girls, ay, and you, my dear, 
do not thoroughly enjoy yourselves. It is many years ago since we 
first beheld these scenes together.” 

“ More than 1 care to remember always, Abel.” 

“ Well, my dear, they have been very happy ones for me. If our 
girls only get on as well as we have, they will have but little to com- 
plain of. At present they are with us, and we must make the most 
of them. We must not look forward to many more years of their 
society.” 

“ 1 suppose not, Abel, not if every one is going to admire them as 
much abroad as at home. If I’ve seen one opera-glass pointed this 
way, I’ve seen fifty. ” 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Bompas, gallantly, “ 1 noticed the same 
thing with their mother more than five-and-twenly years ago, in 
this identical place.” 

Mrs. Bompas laughed, but appeared pleased at her faithful spouse. 
The girls, engrossed in the opera, had not caught their parents’ con- 
versation, and she felt safe in proceeding. 

“ Abel,” she said, ‘‘ do you know 1 fancy Adelaide seems a good 
deal taken up with young Mr. Galbraith.” 

“ Well, my dear, 1 have observed symptoms of embarrassment 
when the gentleman's name has been mentioned, which would seem 
to confirm your idea.” 

“ Well, Abel, what do you think of it?” 

“ Upon my word, my dear, 1 have not given the matter attention 
enough to say what 1 really do think of it.” 

“ 1 suppose Mr. Galbrailh is well off?” 

“ That 1 suppose, but it is only a — ah — surmise. He is purchas- 
ing property, which— ah — looks like it, and he is also— a— paying 
for it, which again seems to bint at the possession of money. Of 
course, it such a matter as you seem to contemplate were to be 
brought before me, why then — of course— as a father, it would be my 
duty to— ah— de-li'Cate ly investigate Mr. Galbraith’s position, but 


114 


AS AYO]Sr FLOWS. 


at present, my dear, of course 1 can only guess at his means from his 
manner of Jiving, which appears comfortable, and, even in some 
respiects, lux-u-ri-ous/’ 

The thoughts of the delicious draughts which Edward’s deft 
hands had compounded rose up before him and compelled the last 
epithet. He seemed to scent the fragrant drink, and hear once 
more the ice tinkle on his goblet brim. 

“Well, Abel,” pursued the faithful mother, “ our girls are very^ 
good girls, and ought .to marry well, and they’re getting very much 
admired here in London. Young Mr Goldings was most attentive 
to Adelaide the other evening, and we go I here to-morrow, you 
^know. The dear girl won’t want for strings to her bow, 1 can see. 
I’m very glad we’ve had this little trip. It 11 show them a little of 
the world, and let them know there are other places besides Avon- 
ham, and other attractions outside their own home.” 

Just then the crash of applause broke in at the final chorus of the 
act,"and conversation in the box became general. 

Mr. Bompas had, of course,- correspondents im London, and for 
the most part these were men whose acquaintance and connection 
with him were of many years standing Many a cunning bottle of 
rare old wine made its appearance in his honor and for his delecta- 
tion in Inn chambers, in old-fashioned taverns, and in the barn-like 
rooms of Bloomsbury houses, the coziest, handsomest and roomiest 
in London, but now sadly fallen from their high estate, and given 
up to lodgers, mysterious agencies and money-lending offices digni- 
fied with the titles of banks, and having an evil savior attached to, 
most of their names. In those old houses twenty years ago were to 
be found dinners and cellars of irreproachable excellence, and hosts 
and diners hard to be equaled in these days of barrack hotels on 
the one hand and tardily repentant abstinence on the other. And 
the ladies were as hospitable as the men, as Mrs. Bompas well knew, 
and as her daughters were to experience now; and heartiest of the 
hearty was the w^elcome extended to Mr. and Mrs. Bompas and his 
family by old Mr. Goldings, the head of the fiim of family solici- 
tors, Goldings and-West, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, who inhabited a 
mansion in Bussell Square. A dinner was, of course, the mode 
which the solicitor adopted whereby to entertain his friends; and 
his w^omen-folk talked him over into giving a dance afterward, and 
to both of these forms of entertainment our Avonham friends were 
bidden. Two of the daughters of the host were school-tellows of 
the girls, and five merrier, brighter lassies could nowhere be found. 

At dinner-time Adelaide went down with young Goldings, a West- 
Central Adonis, marked as highly eligible by many a fond mother. 
This young man was, as Mrs. Bompas had observed, very much 
smitten by the charms of his pretty neighbor, to whom he paid great 
attention. Adelaide remembered him as a gawky boy of fifteen 
home from Charterhouse for his holidays; he was now a rather 
good-looking young fellow of twenty-six, the junior partner of the 
firm, and with very pretty tea-table manners, which became him 
extremely well. Louisa fell to the lot of his brother, an Oxonian, 
of mild countenance and gentlemanly manners, who was to all out- 
ward appearances likely to develop into a model curate of the non- 
muscular Christian school, and who consequently cherished in his 


AS AVON- FLOWS. 


115 


heart Republican and freedhinking principles and opinions that 
would have made The! wall shudder ; these were not produced at 
table, however. A father who is a family solicitor is touchy on the 
doctrine of equality, and Republicans are mild in the presence of a 
tureen. 

Lucy’s partner was the cheeriest of white-haired old bachelors, 
who apologized for the temporary absence of a favorite nephew, 
who would^ he said, join the party after dinner, but who kept Miss 
Lucy quite as lively as her sisters seemed with their cavaliers The 
dinner was of the florid Euglish order, the company the reverse of 
dull, the host seemed really glad to see his friends, and look wine 
with his guests fn the cheery old-fashioned manner of bygone days 
that ought not, 1 think, to have gone with them Perhaps it sur- 
vives somewhere, but it is drifting away on that sea of innovation 
which has washed away the country dance and the punch bowl — 
mOre’s the pity. But here, in those days, th(i custom flourished, 
and no point of its jovial solemnity was omitted. The challenge, 
the stereotyped acceptance, the “ taking in,” the beaming smile con- 
temporaneous with the courtly bow over the brimming glasses, and 
the simultaneous draughts, all was carried out that properly apper- 
tained to the good old rite. Mr Markham, Lucy’s partner, was 
especially selected as a mark for individual challenges and he never 
failed to respond. He was a source of great amusement to Lucy, 
who described him afterward as the dearest old beau she had ever 
met; Mr. Trumphy was nothing to him. 

“ How long do you stay in London, Miss Lucy?” said he; ” I'm 
not going to call you Miss Bompas, for two reasons first of all, 
you’re not Miss Bompas yet, and next the name isn’t pretty enough 
for you.” 

“ Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Markham. We s^all stop, 
I hope, tor another three weeks; this is. iry first visit to London 
since 1 was at school here. ” 

” Well, you must come out and see my place at Hampstead; I 
shall get your father to bring you. ” 

“ I’m sure papa will be most happy.” 

Goldings was telling me about his pluck at that dreadful riotous 
place of yours.' 1 wonder you’re not afraid to live there.” 

“ Indeed, it’s the quietest place in the world,” said Lucy, stand- 
ing up bravely for her native town; ” 1 can’t make out how it hao- 
pened; we’ve never had an election there, that I can remember, and 
1 don’t believe it was pur townspeople who made the riot at all.” 

“ Quite right to stick up for your own town, Miss Luey; I’v^e a 
nephew who has been there once, and he described it as a very 
quiet place.” 

“ It’s a very nice place.” 

‘‘ Many young gentlemen there?” 

“ OhI 1 don’t know; about the average number 1 believe. There 
is an average of male population in the country isn’t there? 1 mean 
so many males to every female — two and a half or something of that 
sort.” 

Mr. Markham laughed. 

” Oh, there is, 1 assure you; 1 learned something about it at 


116 


AS AYOJSr FLOWS. 


school; it’s a horrid thing for the men, you know; they can’t all get 
married, of course. ” 

“ Some of them don’t want to, miss. I’ve kept away from it 
myself, and made room for some one else, you see.” 

” Haven’t you ever been married, JVlr. Markham? 1 should have 
thought you had been, you seem so nice.” 

“My turn to thank you for a compliment, now; but 1 think 
you’ve got your statistics wrong somehow.” 

“How?” 

“ Why, if 1 don’t mistake, there are more women then men in 
this country.” 

“ Good gracious, that’s worse; why there isn’t a man apiece for 
all of us; can’t all get married then?” 

“ Well, there are old maids as well as old bachelors, you know.” 

“ Yes, but it there aren’t any more of one than 'the other, that 
makes no difference to the rest you know. ’ ’ 

“ Some men marry twice.” 

“ So do some women— we’re no better off even then.” 

“ Well, Miss Lucy, 1 venture to prophesy that you needn’t trouble 
about the scarcity of husbands. Even if there aren’t enough to go 
round for everybody, there'll be some one coming for you, I’m 
ceitain. Now, while you’re thinking over the one that’s coming — ” 

“ There isn’t one.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Well— how you tease — 1 mean 1 don’t know him, and he hasn’t 
begun to come yet ” — and Lucy looked the old gentleman saucily 
in the face, and laughed merrily at him. 

“Ah! he’ll come some day, perhaps to-night, who knows? I’m 
going to ask your father to take wine with me.” 

Mr. Markham caught the eye of Mr. Bompas without much diffi- 
culty, and the two handsome old fogies hob-nobbed with a courtly 
grace that would put to the blush scores of the youth of to-day — if 
youth blush nowadays, which is doubtful. 

When the ladies retired, and the gentlemen closed up to their 
host’s end of the table, Mr, Bompas found fiimself next to Mr. 
Markham, who complimented him first upon his daughters, and 
secondly upon his conduct at Avon ham. Before they joined the 
party upstairs, which was now numerous and ready tor the dance, 
Mr. Bompas had settled a visit to Hampstead, and appointed a day 
for that purpose. 

On reaching tbe drawing-room, Mr Markham made his way to 
Lucy, and laughingly asked her to pilot him through a quadrille. 

“ That is my only dance except ‘ Sir Roger,’ ” said he, “ but 1 
never like to admit that my dancing days are quite over ” 

The first quadrille is a stately and solemn affair which a Bench of 
Bishops might dance with their Diocesan Secretaries’ Aunts, and 
Mr. Markham went through it as a matter not to be irreverently 
handled; at the conclusion of it he gallantly escorted Lucy' to a seat, 
and thanked her for the dance. At that moment a good looking 
young fellow, who had just been shaking hands with Mr Goldings, 
came up, and, addressing the old gentleman as “uncle,” grasped 
his hand and shook it heartily. 

“ Ah, Fred, my boy, only just arrived?” said the old gentleman. , 


AS AYOHs FLOWS. 


117 

*** Quite well? That’s right. Here, sir, let me introduce you to my 
first partner. Miss Tmcy Bompas, this is my nephew, Mr. Frederick 
Markham. Now, my dear, I can leave you in the hands dt a pait 
ner who can dance; take care of Miss Bompas, Fred, and find her 
plenty of partners.” 

Lucy and the young fellow were soon whirling round the room, 
/.and much as she had liked the uncle, it must be owned that her 
new partner was more to her liking, so tar as dancing went. He 
put his name down three times on her card, introduced hei to fresh 
partners, danced with her sisters and the daughters of the house, 
but always returned to her as otten as he got a chance. 

” "What capital dancers all you sisters are,” said he, when, having 
maneuvered them all to the same seat and got ices tor them, he 
lounged by them, much envied by the rest of the young men in the 
room. 

” It must come by nature, then,” said Louisa, ” for we are terri- 
bly short of practice.” 

” Well, 1 must ask you to spare me another dance apiece after 
supper. Pray, are your cards all full?” 

“You can have a polka, Mr. Markham,” said Adelaide. “1 
have one here — number 16.” 

“ Many thanks. Miss Louisa Bompas, have you anything to be- 
stow in charity?” 

‘‘ A schottische. Is that good enough for you?” 

” Beggars mustn’t be choosers. Number 18, isn’t it? Please 
give me your card. Thank you very much. Miss Lucy Bompas, 
my uncle told me to take care of you, please give me the supper 
dance. 1 will forage for you like a Cossack.” 

” With pleasure, Mr. Markham. What are you doing with my 
card? You have put down another after supper ” 

“ 1 asked for one after supper Here comes some one to take you 
away. Don’t forget the dance before supper.” 

” Lucy, my dear,” said Adelaide, ‘‘ how many dances have you 
given that young man to-night? Six, 1 believe. Lou, I think the 
next time this young woman ventures to read her sister’s lessons 
about blushing we must ask to look at her programme.” 

Presently the supper dance arrived, and, that over, the supper 
itself, to which Lucy and her partner went down in liigh spirits. 
Fred was as good as his word, and provided most skillfully for 
Lucy’s wants. When at last he had leisure for conversation he 
said . 

” You are only on a visit to London then. Miss Bompas?” 

” That is all. We live a good way down in the country in Marl- 
shire.” 

‘‘ Marlshire? Oh, indeed. 1 was down there for a day not long 
ago, at Avonham. ” ^ 

“Oh, yes, 1 remember your uncle told me you were. Well, 
Avonham is where we live. ” 

‘‘Is it, indeed? how curious. Why, one of my dearest friends 
lives there.” 

‘‘Who is that?” 

‘‘ Harry Galbraith. Do jmu know him?” 

“ Oh, yes, he's a neighbor of ours— and do you really know him, 


J18 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


and is he a j^reat friend of yours? How singular. Do you know 
the whole to^vn is just dying to know all about him. We used to 
cal] him the hermit, and the recluse, and all sorts of names until we 
knew him and his friend Mr. Bryceson."’ 

“ Walter Bryceson is another of my friends.’’ 

“ F’ancy that now.” 

” And there aren’t two finer or better fellows Jn the world. We 
were together for many years in America. It was to visit Harry that 
1 went to Avonham. We all dined at the hotel there, and a capital' 
time we had.” 

‘‘1 remember the time you came. Every one wondered who you 
>11 were, and wheie you all came from; that is,” she added, ‘‘ all 
the gossips of the town, at any rate. Papa knows Mr. Galbraith 
very w^ell. He has done business with him: sold him a house and 
'some land tor a lady whose affairs papa manages. Papa says Mr. 
Galbraith and Mr. Bryceson behaved splendidly the other day in a 
riot at Avonham. Do you know Mr. Galbraith threw a man right 
over some people’s heads? He must bewery strong.’' 

” He’s the strongest man 1 ever met in my life, and as brave as a 
lion. It was not the first row Harry and Walter have been shoulder 
to shoulder in. We’ve seen some queer things together, Miss Lucy. 
Do you know, I’m so glad you live at Avonham. 1 shall have a~ 
chance of seeing you again.” 

” We shall be, very glad, I’m sure,” said Lucy, casting down her 
eyes. 

” 1 shall make a great use of Harry now,” said Markham, laugh- 
ing, ” now I’ve a real excuse for running down.” He lowered his 
voice and, bending forward, added, ” I can kill two birds with one 
stone.” 

The rest of the night was very ^weet to Lucy. Her programme 
was, as Louisa told her afterward, ‘‘ a terrible tell-tale;” and she 
unblushmgly sat out a dance with Fred in the conservatory whilst 
the vvould-be partner whose name figured on the programme was 
wildly hunting for her. Old Mr. Markham, to whom she gave “ Sir 
Roger,” was very funny over her system of averages and her statis- 
tics; her sisters very facetious in the carriage going home; that last, 
hand pressure was indeed sentimental, Adelaide declared; and even 
mamma had her little joke. But the tw^o elder sisters were vastly 
surprised when Lucy told them of the old friendship existing be- 
tween young Markham and their two Avonham neighbors. In due 
time, next day, arrived Mr. Markham and his nephew— 

“ The ball’s fair partner to behold. 

And humbly hope she caught no cold.” 

As the old gentleman quoted. The two old fellows made friends 
very rapidly, and the young people were very merry. M'ith a mis- 
chievous hint or two Lucy contrived to give Fred some inkling of the 
impression his two friends had made on the hearts of her sisters, and 
he discoursed in glowing terms of both of them. He gave, some 
bright sketches of their life abroad, and from him theBompas fami- 
ly learned many things of the two strangers who had pitched their 
tents in Avonham. Sirs. Bompas was gratified to learn that both 
Galbraith and Bryceson were wealthy; not really mercenary or 


AS AYOiT FLOWS. 


119 


worldly, she was yet put greatly at her ease by learning that in addi 
tion to the fortune made in California, each had inherited family 
property ; and Fred spoke so eloquently of the bravery, modesty and 
large- hearted ness of Galbraith and of the unfailing good*humor 
and sterling good qualities of Bryceson, that Adelaide and Louisa 
were delighted. When the two took their leave of the country fami- 
ly, and the girls were again alone, Louisa said— 

“ Lucy, your new admirer is very nice; he’s a clever man, I’m 
sure, and 1 heard his uncle tell papa that he was the best of good 
fellows to his old father and to him, and he talks wonderfully well 
—doesn’t he, Addie?” 

“ Capitally,” said Adelaide. 1 like him very much.” 

” Well, his subject was interesting to you two turtle-doves,” said 
Lucy, 

” Wait till he talks about you, my dear,” sajd Adelaide, ” you’ll 
be more interested then. How curious it all seems. Whatever is 
going to happen to us three girls. At present we seem like one joint 
stock company falling in love with another one.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

A MEETING, A TALK AND A LETTER. 

“What a one-horse place this is, Harry,” said Bryceson ^one 
morning at the breakfast table, as he laid down a letter which Ed- 
ward had just brought him; “ my man in town declares he sent off 
the guns tour days ago, and they must be at Avonham Road. Row 
I’ve told that carrier to inquire always for anything for us, and I’ll 
go bail he’s never put himself out of the way to do it. What a place 
of this size wants to be five miles off a railway station tor is more 
than I can make out.” 

“ Well, let us ride over this morning and see about them,” an- 
swered Galbraith! “ Ned was at me this morning about some wine 
that ought to have turned up on Saturday when he was over there; 
we may as well go in that direction as another.” 

“Very well.” 

“ I’m very anxious, too. to hear from the squire; we must be get- 
ting a letter in a few days ; and there’s another thing — I’ve a letter 
here from Fred Markham.” - 

“ Fred! how’s Fred?” 

“ Oh, all right, he has met the Bompas people in town and owns 
to being very much taken with one of ’em.” 

“ Which one?” said Bryceson very quickly. 

“ With the youngest,” said Galbraith laughing. 

“Oh! Lucy, well, I’m very glad of it; they’re cut out for one an- 
other, those two. ” 

Galbraith laughed again: “You’re quite brotherly, old fellow, 
there was a real tarcily air about that remark.” 

“ Pass me a weed, you old humbug, and look at home. By the 
way, where did Fred meet them first?” 

“ At the house of the Goldings — coincidence number two, about 
that. If we don’t hear from the squire this mail 1 vote for a run to 


120 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 

town; Fred will be glad to see us and we sball benonetbe worse for 
a night or two together.” 

“ Sec'.onded and carried.” 

” Well, let’s have the horses and go off to Avonham Road. 1 want 
to go over to the builder’s in High Street about the loose boxes, and 
he is sure to be half an hour before he understands what 1 want.” 

” Let Ned bring them round to the Bear.” 

“ That house will close and Pinniffer will hang himself when you 
leave Avonham. ” 

“ ^suppose I stop here, then, and avoid a catastrophe.” 

” Let us see how things turn out, old boy; it’s kind enough of 
you, goodness knows, to be here with me now.” 

” 1 don’t see it; I’m in deuced snug quarters; a good deal cozier 
than my barrack of a place in Essex. But just fancy old Fred run- 
ning across the Bompas girls.” 

” The world’s very small,” said Galbraith sententiously; ” come 
along to my bricks-and-mortar friend. Ned, bring the horses to the 
Bear in half an hour. ” 

”Do you know anything of dhat man?” said Bryceson as they 
passed the Bank and saw Sheiman standing at the door in conversa-. 
tion with a customer. 

” Not any more than 1 want to,” said Galbraith; ” he’s an ill- 
conditioned, surly fellow at the best. 1 had ^ome communication 
with him when i first came here — he wanted the Coombes you 
know.” 

” Aes, you told me.’.’ 

■ ‘ Well, he wanted that chestnut horse, and didn’t get it, and the 
other day he wanted that land and didn’t get that either, and to tell 
you the truth, Walter, I’ve been putting two and two together, and 
1 fancy 1 can trace the attack on the house the other night to him.” 

“Hallo!” 

“ 1 only want to get that ex- prisoner of ours in a corner one day 
and 1 shall get it out of him, I have no doubt.” 

, “ And then?” 

“ And then I’ll give the young gentleman about as good a cow- 
hiding as he deserves. I’ll make sure first though. He’s a nasty- 
tempered brute 1 hear, and very fond of threatening people who 
offend him; Ned has heard some of his remarks about me at second- 
hand in this tattling, gossiping, mischief-making hole, and loves the 
fellow about as much as 1 do. Have you run across him much?” 

“Once or twice— I’m not smitten with him myself. If you're 
away at any time and the cow-hiding seems needful, I sha’n’t have 
any compunction in acting as your deputy.” 

“ Thank you, old boy; it couldn’t be left in better hands. Gome 
in with me now, and help me make this architectural genius under- 
stand what a loose box is. 1 believe he has a sort of idea that it has 
hinges and a lid to it.” 

The local builder, however, was more enlightened as to the edifice 
he was expected to erect, and the friends, having interviewed Mr. Pin- 
niffer, and tasted his cherry brandy, mounted and rode off toward 
Avonham Road Station. Neither the horses nor the riders at the 
Goombes were in the habit of being passed on the road, and all 
vehicles and horsemen going in the same direction were ovei taken. 


AS AYON- FLOWS. 


121 


"and. left behind as a general rule. About midway between the town 
and the station, the carriage ot Mrs. Stanhope was seen ahead. It 
was rapidly overhauled, and as Bryceson dashed past in tront of his 
friend, he saluted the three gentlemen seated by the side of the widow. 
The two friends had dismounted and handed their steeds to a brace 
of rustics who were hovering round the station on the look-out for 
a job, when the equipage they had passed drove up, and Mr. W alter 
Kivers alighting, gave his arm, in turn, to Mrs, Stanhope and to his 
uncle. As the twolatter went into the station Walter Rivers came 
up to Bryceson and held out his hand. 

. “How do you do, Mr. Bryceson? I have been anxious to see 
you. 1 didn’t notice who you were just now, until you had passed 
and my uncle told me.’’ 

“Let me introduce my friend and host, Mr. Galbraith,” said 
Bryceson. 

The two young men bowed. 

“ Mr. Galbraith, the town has to thank you greatly for your exer- 
tions in the cause of order the other night. I’m sorry to hear that 
your property suffered. Will you come inside and let me introduce 
you to my uncle, who is most anxious to know you?” 

Galbraith and Bryceson followed Rivers into the waiting-room, 
where Sir Headingly and Mrs. Stanhope were standing. Sir H eadingly 
shook hands with Bryceson, and was introduced to Galbraith, whom 
he greeted cordially. Rivers then approached Mrs. Stanhope and 
presented the tWo friends to her. 

“ Mr. Galbraith,” said she, as she returned that gentleman’s bow, 
“ it seems remarkably strange that we have never met when such 
important transactions have taken place between us. It has really 
been through the fact of all my business being undertaken for me. 1 
am very pleased to meet you, now, though: you and your friend are 
quite the heroes of the place. Hjdithey damage your house much?” 

“ Ko, madam,” said he. 

“ I hear that you requitedyour injuries on some of your opponents, 
Mr Galbraith,” said she, smiling. 

“ Oh, yes, madam, 1 generally manage to pay any little debt of 
•that description in full.” 

“ Are you going to town by any chance, gentlemen?” said Sir 
Headingly. 

“ No,” answered Bryceson, “ we are only looking after something 
which we have ordered from London; it is very awkward having no 
station at Ayonham itself.” 

“ 1 yust that that will be speedily remedied,” said Sir Headingly, 
rather stiffly (the confounded railway had been dinned into his ears 
ratliei frequently lately). 

“ 1 see you have your horses, or 1 would place my carriage at your 
disposal,” said Mrs. Stanhope graciously, as her footman approached 
Sir Headingly and handed him the tickets; “ good-day, gentlemen-” 

The two friends bowed to the stately lady as she moved ott on the 
arm of Sir Headingly, who shook hands with them, as also did Rivers; 
the party then crossed the line by the bridge and awaited the up-l rain. 

Bryceson invaded the booking office and began stirring up the 
slow-going porter-clerk, who presided lumpily over the parcel de- 
partment; having succeeded in identifying the gun cases and wine 


122 


AS AVOl^ TLO'WS. 


cases, which the sleepy old local carrier had omitted to bring over to 
the Coombes, and having rapidly given the officials at the station 
his opinions on their rhethod of conducting business, he rejoined his 
friend just as the up- train containing the party moved off. 

“ 1 wonder what that dear creature would say and do if she had 
the slightest idea of who and what I was, Walter?'’ said Galbraith, 
when they had ridden two or three hundred yards from the station 
on theii; homeward way, 

“1 can’t say, old fellow; of course there will be a tremendous ex- 
plosion when the exposure takes place.” 

“ 1 don’t know, 1 think, though, that matters are likely to be. 
precipitated. ” 

‘‘How?” 

“ Why, 1 rather fancy — I’ve only taken the idea into my head, 
just now— that the amiable lady intends to marry again.” 

” The deuce you do! Whom?” 

” That young spark to whom you introduced me just now.” 

What makes you think that, Harry?” said Bryceson, slightly 
checking his horse In his surprise, and looking extremely astonished 
at hearing his friend’s opinion. 

” Frankly, old fellow, 1 can hardly tell .you. One of those im- 
pressions of mine, I think, that used so often to come right over 
yonider; though, of course, there is more foundation for this idea 
than there was for a good many of them. The young fellow is a 
\ery eligible match*, so is t’other party, if it weren’t for some cir- 
cumstances which you and I know, or at any rate suspect very 
gravely; and there was a fatherly air toward the pair of them about 
that baronet friend of yours to-day which 1 didn’t like at all.” 

” Vvhat would you do, Harry, if you knew—” 

“ That they were going to be married— humph! 1 was just asking 
myself that question, and be handed it 1 sha’n’t find some difficulty 
in fishing up a satisfactory answer to it. I’m in a quandary over it, 

1 can tell you.” 

” As how?” ' . 

“ This way. Squire says that he is certain Reginald will recover 
— recover entirely; and that time and his treatment have tended 'to 
work a complete cure. Well, now who’s to know what his. mind 
will be toward this woman, whom 1 believe, and you believe— and 
with precious good reason— to be the very woman who was his wife 
and drove him mad. When 1 followed her trail (and 1 never worked 
harder at anything), 1 was animated by a feeling that 1 was going to 
get level with a woman who had practically killed Reginald^ and I 
felt like the Avenger of Blood. When 1 tracked her down to this 
quiet little English town, where no one would have dreamed of find- 
ing her unless they had traced her step b}^ step as I did, 1 took the 
very best means of concealing from her any suspicion, any thought, 
of who 1 might be, by acting in whal, when the matter fs all over, 
people will say was the most idiotic and short-sighted manner pos- 
sible:” 

” That was — ?” 

” Buying property of her — and just see how curiously things turn 
out. Why, since we know that Reginald is alive, if things are as 
we suspect, 1 have no title to the very house which 1 bought and paid 


AS AYON" FLOWS. 


123 


for, to the mere tables at which we eat, or the beds we lie upon. If 
1 had set myself to do this thing deliberately as part of my plan, I 
€ould not have succeeded better. When 1 found out that the squire 
and Tom Reynolds and Ralph Derring were in England, and 1 had 
arranged with you and Fred to Come and meet them at Avonham — 
y^ou remember the letter — 1 went into your favorite shanty here (the 
Bear) to order a dinner.” 

“ Dev’lish good dinner, too', old Pinniffer gave us. Well?” 

“ Well, whilst 1 was there, that little prying, sharp-eyed fellow 
came in — Rapsey — and began talking mild scandal. The point turned 
upon, your friend Rivers and that amiable youth Shelman, whom 
everybody seems to be afraid of except old Bompas, who really is a 
good old fellow, and, 1 should say, came of a good old stock.” 

” Well, he’s got a very young stock come of anyway.” 

” Very true, WaHer. However, to go on with my yarn; this little 
man dropped some hints about some rivalry existing between these 
two young men, apart from politics; that is to say, that there was a 
woman in the case; the little chatterbox was pulled up sharply by 
some of the people there, and particularly by Mrs. Pinniffer, for 
mentioning names or even hinting at them. 1 took an opportunity 
of having a chat with Mrs. Pinniffer over it afterward, and soon got 
at the facts. It had been supposed, she said, that IShelman and Mrs. 
Stanhope would have been married, but whether she rejected him 
or he didn’t feel confident enough to propose she couldn’t say. 
About Rivers she had, or professed to have, no idea in that connec- 
tion; that, she said, was some nonsense of Rapsey ’s imagination, 
though she admitted that the little beggar did at times get hold of 
some extraordinary information. It was the meeting to-day that 
put it into my head, and of course 1 may be wrong.” 

But if right?” 

“ Then comes in my difficulty his blow darkened a moment, 
and he bit his lip before going on. ” If my original intention had 
been carried out in its entirety, the revenge 1 would have taken on 
that woman would have oeen untinged by a single scruple. 1 would 
have set my heart as a flint, and have served her as she served him, 
remorselessly and without pity; and to let her many again, to let 
her enjoy her fancied triumph for a brief— a very brief— time, and 
then to dash it away from her, would have been a splendid return 
for her crime. 1 would, too, have been as pitiless tbward the object 
of her love as toward her, and 1 would have flung justice to the 
winds. When a man doesn’t study mercy he’s bound to lose his grip 
of justice, I think. He should- have been involved in her fall, and 
should have shared her fate.” 


They rode on in silence for some time. Bryceson had seen the 
grief of his friend for his brother many times, and knew how his 
bright manner and natural cheeriness was often overclouded by this 
shadow of his life, and what a different being he was under its 
gloomy influence. Of the band of friends who had clung so faith- 
fully together in many wanderings, and many wild scenes, no one . 
had taken more hold of the affection and respect of them all than 
he. Strong amongst giants, biave amongst heroes, quick and fertile 
of resource among men of impulse who carried every day their lives 


124 AS AYO^nT flows. 

in tlieir hands, Henry Galbraith had shown himself one of those 
born pioneers and leaders of men found in every new colony, ruling 
unconsciously by force of example, and looked up to in crisis and 
danger, as men of old looked to their gods for instant and personal 
aid. But ever and again would return the memory of the brother 
he had lost, and a paroxysm of rage or a tempest of grief would 
sweep across his mind and change his nature for awhile, so that he 
would leave friends and companions for a day together, and, with- 
drawing himself from the very sight and sound of men, uieditatehis 
' wrong and brood over revenge, alone and unfit for companionship. 
Since the newj of his brother’s being alive, and the hopeful view 
taken by their old leader of his condition, these moods had disappear- 
ed, and he was now looking forward to their meeting with a keen joy 
scarcely concealed under the calm and imperturbable manner of his 
communication with the outward world. Sometimes, however, he 
would return to something of his old abstraction, though it lasted 
■ but for a short time, and at such times his faithful friend, who well 
knew its cause, was silent until the fit had passed oft, as he was now 
for some minutes during which they covered a mile of the ground 
between them and Avonham. 

“ Tliose, you see, Walter,” he went on presently, were the feel- 
ings with which 1 came here, but since we had that meeting, and the 
squire told us how he had found Reginald, and how the dear old 
chfvp had tended him and got him better, all the while afraid to let 
me know in case his care was unavailing, somehow 1 feel difterenfc 
about it. 1 don’t feel any different toward her,” he said, with raised 
voice and clinching his right hand as if he caught something hostile 
and gripped it hard; ” she deserves all the punishment she could 
~ ever have had at my hands, and, by Jove! if it rests with me to ad- 
minister it, it will be short and sharp; but it won’t entirely if 
Reginald has really recovered; and I’ve another thing to say about 
it — I’ve no wish to drag any one else in it who isn’t in already. No, 
if 1 were to hear for certain that she were going to marry any decent 
fellow, 1 would bring matters to a head at once. It would be an 
installment of punishment for her, and, as you said just after we 
left her, there will be a tremendous explosion when the exposure 
doe8 talre place. Well, let H take place without hurting any one but 
her. I’ll take care it reaches her, at any rate.” 

” Harry,” said Bryceson, after a minute’s silence, ” do you know, 
there’s one thing that just flashed acioss my mind when you men- 
tioned the fact of your’ bad title to the house you have bought.” 

” What was that, Walter?” 

” Of course the title would be bad on account of her not being 
legally married to Stanhope.” 

“ Of course; Her husband was living at the time.” 

‘‘ Harry, suppose that when she ran away from Reginald with that 
engineer scamp — suppose, I say, that she got a divorce over in the 
States?’^ 

Galbraith checked his horse sharply, and pulled up, as though he 
had seen a dead body iu the road. Walter stopped as well, and for 
a minute or two the two men looked at each other, Bryceson with a 
halt -puzzled expression as thougli uncertain how his companion. 


AS AYOl^ FLOWS. 125 

would take tire queiy, Galbraith with awide stare of blank astonish- 
ment. Then Galbraith spoke slowly, and as it with difficulty— 

“ By heavens, Walter! 1 have never thoughtof that.’* 

“ It is possible, though,” said Walter, walking his horse on. 

‘'Yes,” said his friend, following nis example, and ranging up to 
his side, “ possible enough, and easily enough to be managed, as we 
know, but is it probable?” 

“ W^hy not?” 

“ Well, so far as Tom Reynolds always said, the chase was hot- 
foot after them. Reginald was supposed to have been killed by that 
engineer scoundrel, and they left the States— so lorn says— for Ha- 
vana from New Orleans,” 

‘ ‘ True, and the idea, as 1 tell you, never struck me before— of 
course it may be a false one — but consider this happened in ’36; in 
’49 we went to the Pacific Slope as pioneers, and stayed there till 
’57; that’s two 5 "ears ago, and here we are in ’59. Now, it’s thirteen 
years ago since it happened. Mrs. Stanhope was married, according 
to the statement of our two old friends here, Bompas and Millard, 
about eight or nine years ago. She was married about four years, 
and has been a widow for about four years — say nine years for the 
two states —that leaves four years to account for between her flight 
to Havana and her appearance as a decorous married woman in 
Avonham. Now, Harry, 1 know you’ve taken all the pains possible 
to track this woman, but; of course, old fellow, you found here and 
there an interval for which you can’t fully account. In one of those 
intervals she may have gone back to tlie States and sued out a di- 
vorce. By George! it’s done there every day.” 

“ Well, the supposition is a staggerer, and of course when 1 go 
over, which 1 shall do soon whether 1 hear from the squire or not, 1 
must try and And out. Of course there are records to be had in every 
state, though some of them must be very loosely kept and hard to 
get at. Anyhow, Walter, we don’t entirely lose our hold of her. 
I’ll not be balked of my long-expected reckoning. Her record 
won’t bear repeating at any rate, and, by Jove, the task of proving 
her divorce shall be on her shoulders, and I’ll inake this side of the 
Atlantic warm for her till she does!” 

They rode on without further conversation until they reached 
Avonham, which had resumed the quiet and sleepy appearance com- 
mon to it. There were not a dozen people in the street, a few were 
listlessly standing^ at the doors of their shops, as if waiting fora 
wave of commerce to break on their silent shore. If that wave had 
come, it would have swept them away, their old ideas could never 
have stemmed it. John Rann, from the steps of the market place, 
nodded to Mr. Pollimoy forty yards lower down the street, who was 
standing at his door watching the two hoi'sernen pass. The tv'orlhy 
host of the Bear also lounged in the gateway of his tenement, 
and from* that commanding position raked the town with his glance. 
Him presently the tvvo nodding friends espied, and with expressive 
signs one to the other, disappeared each for a moment, Rann to lock 
the inner gate, and Pollimoy to don his hat. Then they sauntered 
up the street together, like two cows who have for a moment preter- 
mitted the absorbing interest in landscape possessed by their race, 
and wended slowly side by side, apparently without any common 


126 


, AS AYOiq- FLOWS. 


' object or interest, toward the drinking place. How often this had 
been done at nearly the same hour every day by these two would be 
hard to say. See them as they pass along; Timothy Rapsey comes 
across the church-yard about this time — there he is — Wolsten holme 
and Hoppener Pye leave their yard and should be at the Canal YV hart 
abt>ut' the same time that the other three reach the steps of the 
Bear. Occasionally a rainy day, or snow lying deep in winter, 
will throw one of these old fellows back a minute, or goad him into 
an increase of speed, which lands him at the bar parlor door just 
that space of time ahead of his cronies ; if this should happen he re- 
marks it; explains the reason to his friends; makes an incident of 
it. Market day upsets these arrangements entirely; market day up- 
sets everything; lite on market day is passed under conditions other 
than normal, market day is a vortex drawing in other than Avon- 
ham atoms — you cannot be methodical in a whirlpool. But to-day 
all are punctual. All shake hands, all wait at the gateway till the 
party is complete (a rainy day alters this as well), and all tramp soi- 
idlf in and greet Mrs. and Miss Pinniffer, who are at their posts and 
waiting. To them all presently enters Mr. Raraty, whip in hand, 
and conversation is general. 

They have chatted for half an hour, when the far-seeing and 
sharp-eyed Timothy gives notice that Mr. Galbraith’s black servant 
is coming up the street. . Two or three of them stroll to the large 
bay window, glass in hand, and observe his movements. He crosses 
the market-place and disappears for a* few minutes. The conversa- 
tion turns upon his master, or masters, for he seems to have two; 
Mr. Rapsey, still observant of the street, suddenly gives a sharp 
“ hush,” and the negro wallpin at the front door and puts his head 
into the room; he looks round and catches Mr, Raraty ’s eye — that 
worthy goes out to him and receives his message. 

“ Will you take anything this morning, Mr. Edward?” says 
Raraty, as he makes an entry in his note-book. 

Mr. Edward is not proof against the invitation and stays. Mr. 
Rapsey, desirous of information, and guessing by Mr. Raraty’s use 
of his pocket-book* that some posting business is on hand, hazards 
the question, 

“ Mr. Galbraith going on a visit; Mr. Edward?” 

“Yes, sah,” replies the negro, shortly. 

“ London?” Mr. Rapsey ventures mildly, while the others interest- 
edly listen. 

‘‘iSo, sah,” replies the negro, “ dat place what dey catch dem 
bloaters — whar’s dat?” 

“ Yarmouth,” says Pollimoy, the traveler. 

“ Yarmuf, dat’s it, shuah ’nut. Mass he gon’ dah for to get some 
dey bloaters fo’ de ribber at de back heah ; he fink dey do f us’ rate 
heah in that water. Mornin’, Massa Ra’ty; mornin’, gen’l’men.” 

That afternoor^. Galbraith and Bryceson drove Tn Mr. Raraty’s 
dog- cart to Avonham Road, and Edward brought back the trap 
alone. After Mr. Rapsey’s rebuff of the morning, that sable retainer 
was not over-burdened with any questions, it being felt that there 
was an elaboration of answer about him, which w^as apt to make the 
interrogator look and feel, somewhat foolish. 


AS AYOISr FLOWS. 


127 

The letter from the squire had arrived, and Galbraith had started 
in response to it. Avonham would not see him again for some time. 


CHAPTER XVL 

A TRIPLE ALLIANCE. 

“ Harry, did you ever meet a man named' Jones?” 

“ Yes, three or four; which one do you mean?” 

” Oh, the man 1 mean was hanged.” 

“ The deuce he was! 1 don’t remember him, what was he hanged 
for?” 

“For not passing the bottle, old fellow, and served him right, 
too.” 

Galbraith roused himself with a laugh, and passed the wine to his 
friend Markham, who had “ sold ” him with this old joke, partly to 
obtain the desired wine, and partly to rouse him from the profound 
reverie into-which he had fallen. 

“ 1 beg your pardon, old fellow. 1 was dreaming, 1 think; 
Walter’s yarn sent me to sleep, 1 suppose. Ring-^ the bell, Walter; 
buzz that bottle and let us start a fresh one.” 

The three young men were seated in a small private room of the 
“ Star and Garter;” the dinner was Over and from the lips of two of 
them light, curling, blue wreaths had for the past half hour ascend- 
ed in graceful spirals toward the ceiling, fanning out as they 
reached the upper currents of air into slowly vanishing cloudlets; 
only from Galbraith came neither smoke nor sound; he sat facing 
the window, looking fixedly at that glorious landscape of leafy sheen 
and silver stream that is so familiar, yet so ever new, so hackneyed, 
yet so refreshing, to the smoke-dried, work-beaten Londoner; for a 
quarter of an hour, at least, Walter had been chatting with Fred 
upon various subjects, without the duologue being once interrupted 
by their silent friend, and as we have seen, the bottle had been neg- 
lected as well as the conversation, but he roused himself now at the 
cheery summons of his comrades, and shook off the gloom that had 
lately seemed to surround him. 

“ Tm a pretty host, by Jove!” he said, rising after Walter had 
pulled the bell handle and the soft-footed waiter had appeared. 
“ Another bottle of burgundy, waiter — what a jolly view from this 
window, boys — 1 don’t know anything piettier. Yes, I do though, 
by Jove! and when old Ganymede comes we’ll drink to their pretty 
eyes, bless ’em — Walter, if you weren’t beyond blushing years ago 
you ought to call some of Fred’s color to your cheeks. Dfd you 
ever see a fellow harder hit? Well, she is a pretty little lassie — they 
all are in fact, and 1 expect you’ve chosen to-morrow’s visit to ^mur 
uncle’s for a declaration — isn’t that so? And Walter is just as bad. 
Why don’t we ask the old folks down here to dinner? IT play 
propriety and keep them in tow whilst you inveigle Miss Louisa and . 
Miss Lucy into snug corners, and learn your fate.” 

“ Listen to me, Fred,” said Walter, holding out his hand toward 
him ; “ father Harry — who would think that civilization and Europe 
could have made such an old hypocrite of our old Downright Dun- 
stable. He was just as solemn, 1 assure you, the night we sat under 


128 AS ATOK FLOWS. 

' the veranda at Avonham and he told me how much he admired 
Adelaide and directly—” here the speaker paused and laughed. 

“ Well,” said Galbraith, laughing in his turn, directly what?” 

Directly you suspect us of — ” 

Suspect— oh myf” 

Hold your tongue and don’t interrupt, Harry; directly you get 
it planted into your old head that Fred and 1 admire your — your — 

j Future sisters-in-law,” said Fred. 

» Thank you, Fred— directly you get that in your venerable poll 

f we have to put up with fatherly counsel from a prospective brother. 

■ Fred, we’ll rebel— we won’t -stand it.” 

? ” Well, here comes the wine,” said Harry; “we won’t let this 

hotlle stand at any rate; shall we drink papa and mamma first, or 
our fairer Avonham friends — pity there isn’t another for old Ralph 
Derrihg— Tom Re 3 molds is married and done for, so it’s no use wish- 
ing tor a fifth for him, and the squire is a confirmed old bachelor. 
Come, boys — bumpers— to their bright eyes all of ’em — and now for 
another cigar — 1 haven’t much more time with you, oldtellows.” 

■ “ Nonsense,” said Fred, “ you’ll be back iii a couple of months 
and Reginald with you; don’t think any more of your troubles and 
things will turn out all right y^et, i’ll warrant.” 

- “ Let’s hope so,” said Walter; “here’s good luck to to-morrow, 

anyhow.^ How jolly that river looks with the sun on it, and that aye- 
niie of trees with the leaves just turning color — Harry, you’ll just 
be in time for the Indian summer over yonder. We shall think of 
you down at Avonham, when we’re ordering our first fires to be lit.” 

“ Well, old man, you won’t think of me more than 1 shall of 
you. 1 sha’n’t get far enougli west foi the old places, but 1 think 
there will be something in the very soil that will remind me of old 
times.” 

“ Ah! we had somemps and downs there,” said Fred. 

“ 1 es, but we had some rare luck, too. ” . 

‘“Ah, yes, we stuck to work and the gold stuck to us,” answered 
Bryceson, ‘ ‘ but we deserved all we got. ’ ’ 

“ 1 often wonder how it was we outstripped every other party 
wherever’ we had a claim,” said Fred. “ 1 suppose it was because 
we were always leal to each other and worked for the common 
good.” 

“ That’s so, and we didn’t fool around the camps after work was 
done, card-playing and drinking,” said Galbraith. 

“ Well, they were grand times after all,” said Walter. 

“ They were,” said Galbraith, “ by Jove, it’s the best way for a 
man to spend his young manhoodj You’ve room to breathe, and 
you can breathe all you want to. A^ou must be always on the look- 
out for the next thing that turns up, and have your eyes and ears 
open and your hand ready ail day long; you’re face to face with 
Nature in her wildest mood, and man in his roughest form. There’s 
always something to conquerevery day when you get up. and you’ve 
always done something tangible wdien you lie. down at niglit. Bo 
much dirt washed, so much rock holed, so many feet of sluicing 
done, so many specimens assayed, so many liitle shining grains put 
away in the little leather bag the dear old Squire used to carr}^ And 
then the surroundings— who’s forgotten the smell of the pine woods;. 


129 


AS AVOJt FLOWS. 

who doesn't remember the Canon where we struck our first pocket, 
and how we used to sit snug when the pack trains passed, and how 
we lived at top and threw every one oflt the trail by pretending that 
tur and bear-meat was our little enterprise. Gad, it’s something to 
look back upon, that struggle with Mother Earth herself to make 
her yield- up the wealth that she has been hiding up for so many 
hundred years. She’ll hide us at last, but we’ve had our good turn' 
from her first. They won’t come again; but they were glorious 
times. There have been giants on the earth in our time, boys, and 
w^e’ve done our share of their work!” 

*‘A"es,”said Fred, ‘‘and now we are going to settle dpwn and 
■live like good boys on the proceeds of our toils. We’re like Jack of 
■the Beanstalk legend; we have ventured into the stronghold of the 
giant, and- brought away our treasure; now for the ‘ lived-happy- 
■ever-after ’ portion, which always winds up the tale.” 

There was much more chat of the same nature between the friends 
before they returned to London. Galbraith was to sail that week, 
and this was a farewell dinner to his two old comrades;' it was felt 
by all that the' presence of a fourth person, unless, indeed, he had 
been one of the old band, would have been calculated to throw a 
damper over the conversation and party, and for this once the friends 
were alone. The Avonham ladies had been considerably fluttered 
during the past wmeks by finding that two of their neighbors had 
followed them to town. Papa had gone to call on Mr. Goldings and 
had found them at his office — quite, by accident of course — and they 
were invited to the house of old Mr. Markham on the same day as 
that fixed for their own visit there, and it would be hard to say 
whether pleasure or surprise predominated in the minds of the three 
sisters when they heard the news. Since then they were constantly 
meeting. Mrs. Bompas looked fidgettily happy, and the worthy 
head of the familj^ was evidently burdened with thoughts too deep 
for colloquial expression; even the heavy.artillery of his grave elo- 
quence failed to carry the wordy missile of explanation along the 
whole range of cogitation. 

It was, however, a very merry party that assembled at Fairlawn 
on the following day; needless to say that the ladies looked charm- 
ing, that old Markham was boisterously hospitable, and that the 
affair was not suffered to drag tor lack of light-heartedness. The 
day was one of those bright September ones that early autumn 
brings, as if to show how bright she can be, and that her first re- 
splehdent dress becomes her as much as the many tinted robe she 
will don when her longer life has brought the shortening days; and 
the evening had that calm, sweet influence that follows a rosy, flam- 
ing September sunset, as the sweet voice of the soprano follows the 
crashing chorus of the men. Somehow— insensibly of course — the 
couples had paired properly oft, the old folks sat talking by the 
opened window, the young ones strolled or sat in the grounds. Not 
a very' long time passed before Fied and Lucy began to speak in 
tones that wmre lower and lower, though no one was there to listen, 
and the pauses between the wmrds were longer and longer, and the 
words sweeter and sweeter, till presently the dainty waist was in- 
circled, the dainty fingers pressed, the pouting lips kissed, and the 
fair head drawn down till it rested close to the faithful heart. This 


130 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 

wild bird catoe to the lure as readily ^nd willingly as the tamest of 
barn-door fowls. Then after a short, delicious silence, there was 
some pretty business with a ring, and a morsel — just a morsel — oi 
golden hair, .and Lucy-had found fate and mate -at once. 

“ 1 wonder,” said LVed, after awhile, “ whether any more of this 
sort of thing is going on anywhere else in the grounds; ” 

”1 think,” said Lucy, shyly, as if there were any doubt about 
the matter,” 1 thick Mr. Bryceson and Louisa are in the conserva* 
tory; shall we go and join them?” 

” Not for the world, dearest,” answered Fred; ” 1 wouldn't inter- 
rupt them on any account. 1 think we can guess what is taking 
place in there — eh, darling?” 

This is what was taking place; , 

” Do you believe in the language of flowers, Mr. Bryceson?” 

” Not a bit— do you?” 
don't know.’' 

” 1 thir^ it is great rubbish, don't you?” ^ 

” Well-^n-o-o— 1 can't t^uite say 1 think it. is rubbish; it may be ^ 
— perhaps some people carry it — believe in it, 1 mean, too much, but 
it's— oh, really, Mr. Bryceson, it’s too pretty an idea to be described 
.as rubbish.” - 

” Well, perhaps it is. Maybe I doii't understand it enough, either 
to appreciate it or to do it justice But, do you know, i think if 1 ’ 

wanted to make love to anyone— 1 say if I wanted to make love to i 
any one — ” j 

” We-e 11?” (a very long word).. 1 

” Well, 1 think I'd have sense eiiough to get through the business j 
without bothering the gardener.” 1 

” I’m afraid you’re not fond of flowers.” j 

” Oh, but 1 am— you should see the magniflcent tropical fellows | 
— have you ever seen a magnolia — no? what a pity. 1 don’t think j 
anyone knows what floral beauty really is till he's seen a magnolia.”’ 

“Indeed?” (Not an overwhelming interest exhibited in mag- j 
nolias.) ^ i 

“ Oil, yes; 1 always went in raptures over the tropical beauties — I ; 
mean of flowers, of Course. Now, Hairy would sooner have an. 
English primrose or a violet than any exotic. ” " ; 

“ Really?” (with some further loss of interest) “ Mr. Galbraith i 
seems quite al! important person with you and Mr. Markham. ” :! 

“ Important! 1 should think he was — why, he’s the best and 1 
dearest fellow in the world. Important! 1 should just — why, do ^ 
you know, Lou — 1 beg your pardon — Miss Louisa "—(both rather -j 
red here) — “ neither Fred nor 1 would be here td-day if it hadn’t ^ 
been for him.” , 

“ What a dreadful life that must be abroad, Aren’t you very / 
glad it’s all over?” ^ 

“Oh, 1 don’t know.” {Oh!) “It was a glorious life— Harry : 
was saying so only yesterday at Richmond. We went down to the . 

‘ Star and Garter ' yesterday, and had dinner with Harry.” • 

“ On Sunday? — you abandoned men!” * \ 

“ Well, you must eat on Sunday. Didn’t you eat yesterday?” 

Of course 1 did. We had dinner at home.” - 9 

“ Well, hut we haven’t any home to go to, you know.” 


AS AvpK rj;ows. 


181 


“ Nahome?’" 

“In London, at least., Ot course, we have homes, all three of us 
— Fred’s in chambers, but they’re awfully cozy and comfortable; 
my house is in Essex.” 

“1 have heard you say so. You don’t seem to care for it much.” 

“1 don’t— at least, the house is all right,. and is a very pretty old 
place, but then, you see, 1 haven’t anybody to look after it, except 
a housekeeper and some old servants of my father. Now if 1 were 
married it would be different, wouldn’t it?” 

“ 1— suppose— it— would.” 

‘‘Of course it would; it would alter things entirely. 1 say. Miss 
Louisa, talking of being married — ” {coming ) — “talking of being 
married, does your sister — your eldest sister, 1 mean—” {Gracious 
goodness, whatever is coming QdiXe at all tor Harry, do you 
think?'' {Oh!) 

“ Really, Mr. Bryceson, 1 can’t say. Suppose you ask Mr. Gal- 
braith to ask her. ” 

“Oh, 1 expect he’s doing that now.” 

“Do you?” 

“ Oh, yes. You see, he went down to the lake with your eldest 
sister, and Fred went into the shrubbery with your youngest, whilst 
we— came in here.” 

The dark curls have touched the golden curls; the dark eyes are 
gazing very tenderly at the downcast blue ones; there is a silence 
that is too full ot sweetness for speech. 

“Yes, we came in here to talk of floweis. See, here is a meek 
little one — it is not very gaudy, not like niy glorious magnolia, but 
it has a lovely scent- may 1 give you a piece?” 

The little hand takes it silently, and the blue eyes look up, full of 
love. 

“ 1 said just now the language of flowers was rubbish, didn’t 1? 
YVell, this little one has converted me. Do you know what the 
heliotrope means?” 

“ Yes ”(a very tiny yes— only just enough to part the rosy lips). 

^ “ It means ‘ 1 love you ’—take- my spray, my darling, and put it 
near your heart — and give me a piece in return — and it will mean 
that you love me, dearest; as I love you.” 

All tenderly the little hand plucks the blossom, and her ;face is 
hidden for awhile. 

Down by the lake Galbraith and Adelaide strolled and talked in 
much the same manner as the other two couples. The heart of the 
frank girl went out to meet the great love of this man, so brave and 
so tender, so strong and so true. When the tender question had been 
asked and answered, when heart had beaten against heart, and lip 
pressed lip, then Adelaide had to begin to bear her burden. 

“ Y’‘ou know I am going away, dearest, don’t you?” 

“ Oh, Harry! so soon?’’ 

“ My darling, it miist be so, and 1 must tell you why; come, 
now, let us try whether you can keep a secret.” 

And then he told her all the tale. 

To say that she was not astonished would be wrong, but he was 
surprised at the calmness with which she spoke of it, and of the part 
he wanted her to play. 


132 AS AYOK FLOWS. 

“ If there should be any rumor of her approaching marriage that 
reaches your ears, you must at once let Walter Bryceson know: he 
will know how to act if 1 am away,’* was his last advice before they 
returned to the house. 

“ Oh, yes, Harry. I’ll send for Mr. Bryceson immediately,, 
and—” 

” Send for him? Ah, Adelaide my dear, 1 don’t think there will 
be much need for that. My impression is that ygu are going to see 
a great deal more of Master Walter than you think for. Now, dar- 
'ling, let us join your father and mother.” 

” 1 shall see you before you go?” 

” Every day till 1 leave London, that is if papa will have me.” 

” Oh, there is no fear of that. He is very fond of you. Oh^ - 
Harry, 1 am so happy. But 1 wish you w'eren’t going away. Oh. 
here are Lou and Lucy.” 

Louisa and Lucy, looking most demure and unconscious, were 
standing at the open window talking to Mr. Markham as. uncon* 
cernedly as if being engaged were a daily experience. Adelaide 
joined the group, looking as demure as either of her sisters. The 
old gentleman’s eyes twinkled. 

” Have you seen your mamma, my dear? I fancy she has gone 
out to look for you. Mr. Bompas, let us go and find some of these 
young men and smoke a cigar with them.” 

When the old boys had left the room there was a short silence, 
during which none of - the sisters ventured to look at one another. 

At last Lucy spoke in a solemn tone. 

” Sisters,” she said in a mock-tragedy tone, ” 1 have a confession 
to make.” 

” Well, dear,” from the two others. 

”1 confess to — having wasted a great deal of time in church.” 

” What are you talking about, Lucy?” : 

” Silence, Addie. Yes, my dears, 1 used to wile away the fortj . 
minutes of sermon time by reading the service tor the solemnization ^ 
of holy matrimony — every Sunday regularly.” i 

” Well, madcap, what then?” 1 

” Louisa, you are not respectful. 1 am really the steady one of \ 

the family. Well, my dears, 1 read there— bless you, 1 know it by I 

heart — that it is not by any to be enterprised, nor laken in hand un- i 
advisedly.” 1 

” Whatever is—” I 

” Come and kiss me, my dears, and then let us go and find | 
niamma.” ■ 

And as the sisters embraced a tew tears fell, soon dried, but still i 
they fell. You see marriage is an honorable estate and all that, but > 
it wrenches out some good strong roots at tim^s when it transplants ^ 
young people. ^ 

When Mr. Markham and Mr. Bompas found their young friends 
they found them in a high state of spirits, shaking hands wildly all | 
round, and evidently much excited about something. (Said bolster- i 
ous Waller — j 

‘‘Boys, this makes me feel good. Oh! Fred; oh! Harry, let’s-. 
get away somewhere quiet and holloa ‘ Jake Keyser ’ till something 
breaks!” 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 138 

“ Here's uncle and Mr, Bompas," said Fred. “ Let’s go straight 
to papa and out with it.” 

” ph! my dears,” said Mrs. Bompas, coming in to her daughters 
half an hour after, ‘‘your papa has told me all about it — I’m so 
happy, my dearest girls — but please tell me once more — or write it 
down, Addie, to make who's going to marr.y whom. You 

really must sort yourselves out, my dears, or 1 shall make all sorts 
of blunders over it. ” 

✓ 

' CHAPTER XVll. 

ned’s hospitality and what came op it. 

Before Galbraith took: up his abode in Avonham, the inhabitants 
of that quiet town had held somewhat singular opinions respecting 
the negro race, and, as opinions in Avonham became, by dint of long 
holding, elevated and exalted to the dignity of cieeds, it was some- 
what of a shock to find that the preconceived notions and beliefs 
which had passed current for so many years were exploded, or, even 
in the most conservative of minds, considerably modified after per- 
sonal inspection and study of the specimen of the childien of Ham 
now residing there. 

Mi\ Timothy Rapsey was wont to speak of himself as a student of 
human nature. With curiosity the mainspring ot his actions, and its 
gratification the business of his life, simple and almost infantile in his 
^manners, he resembled a child in nothing so much as in the employ- 
ment of that characteristic of infancy, ‘‘taking a deal of notidd.’* 
He had the faculty of reception in no ordinary degree, had he pos- 
sessed that of retention in the same ratio he would have been a 
Marl shire Solon; as it was, although tolerated, and. not refused the 
honor of posing as one of the worthies and authorities of the place,, 
he was forced to admit to himself that he had missed the dignity,, 
the importance, and the gravity which marked the fatheis ot the 
town, and distinguished them from the common herd. Yet the town 
could have better spared a better man than gossiping, inquisitive, 
prying but amusing Timothy Rapsey, who, just at this period of 
our tale, was seized with a burning riesire to cultivate the acquaint- 
ance of Galbraith's negro servant, ostensibly, as he tried to'assure 
himself, with a view of increasing his ethnological knowledge, 
really, as bis mind told him, to gratify his curiosity respecting the 
inmates of a house which he knew not how to honestly enter and 
which was now in the sole charge of Ned. And to know that Gal- 
braith had temporarily vacated his house was not, in Timothy’s eyes, 
at least, to know enough, he wished to acquaint himself why he had 
gone and where he had gone to. 

Whilst he was casting about in his mind for the best means of 
arriving at this desired end, and indeed he was not the only Avon- 
hamite who was curious on the subject, it happened that the oppor- 
tunity of gaining a footing with Ned came about unexpectedly and 
with scarcely much of his own seeking. It chanced one morning, 
as he was passing the front gate of the Coombes, that its janitor, for 
so Timothy considered him, was standing at the top of the ^teps 


134 


AS AYGK PLOWS. 


engaged Jn paying the carrier who had just delivered a parcel. He 
greeted the negro with effusion and paused to haye a chat with him, 
partly to further the great end he had in view, and partly to find 
out what had that morning been left at the house. To his gr^at 
gratification ISled entered readily into conversation, and, the carrier 
having driven away, to his still greater glee, after remarking that 
the day was hot for the time of year, and that he felt very thirsty,' 
the negro invited him to enter and refresh himself, promising him 
that he would provide him something grateful and cooling. 

When Timothy found himself fairly inside the mysterious house 
— for the unknown is always the mysterious to fittle minds— he Was 
fairly beside himself with joy. Everytning was new to him, for he 
had never visited the house in Major Currie’s time, and whilst Ned 
was concerned about the preparation of the drinks, he peered and 
pried into every corner of the room. Hooks, pictures, weapons, 
strange skins and savage trophies were all reviewed and comment- 
ed on in turn, and a glittering mass of iron pyrites and mica 
which Ned produced from a drawer and gravely assured him was a 
nugget of pure gold fairly made him gasp. Such a cigar as the 
little man found between his lips in a few minutes had never come 
within his ken, certainly never found its way to his mouth, and the 
first sensation which came over him as he drew Ned’s seductive 
mixed drink through the first hollow straw he had used since his 
school-days, when he had taken half-holiday draughts from Avon 
by means of a similar apparatus, was akin to his notions of paradise 
itself. 

When the long tumbler was three parts empty and the white ash 
of the incompaiable cigar half an inch long, Mr. Rapsey, according 
to his usual custom, Jbegan to ask questions, to all. of which Ned, 
placidly smoking and sipping, affably replied. 

He’d been a long time with M.r. Galbraith he said — yes, he had 
been a slave— no, not kidnapped from Africa — born in America — 
was born on a Southern plantation — run away? oh, no, never — his 
ole massa was too kind for that—did Mas’r Galbraiff buy him? oh, 
dear no. Mas’ r Galbraiff didn’t hold with slavery — no, he’d been a 
free man many years— been help in a big hotel — Mas’r Galbraiff ’s 
brother took a fancy to him and he left to go with him— dead the 
brother was— oh, yes, he was dead sure ’nuf— yes, he was older 
than Mas’r Harry — was Mas’r Galbraiff -good master/ there wasn’t 
such a master in the world. Mas’r Bryceson was a very nice gen- 
tleman — yes, the two were great friends— oh, yes, they'd been abroad 
together — they wore both good men— Ned would chop ofi his right 
Jhand for either of them— would Mas’r Rapsey try this other glass? 
It was a different sort, but just the thing after the other. • 

Such was the nature of the first portion of the conversation be- 
tween these new boon companions, and stiff the white ash grew, 
^nd still tlie drink was good. Mr. Rapsey became more particular 
and confidential in his inquiries, but still his ebony host answered 
him freely. 

Was Mr. Galbraith rich? Oh, yes; as rich as any one in Avonham 
—richer indeed? Didn’t know how rich Mrs. Stanhope was. If 
she were so very rich why did she sell her house and land? Why 
not let them? Had seen Mrs. Stanhope out driving. Mr. Bompas 


AS^-AVOK FLOWS. 


135 


was very nice man— didn’t know much about the young ladies’ 
looks— of course he preferred the black girls, or the yellow girls— 
where was Mr. Galbraith? Didn’t he tell Mr. Rapsey only a liitle 
while ago he was- gone to Yarmuf? Well, he expected he was in 
London now. What a brave man he was. Mas’r Harry one of the 
strongest men anywhere, and brave as a lion — Mas’r Bryceson brave 
Ioq; had need to be, both of them, where they’d lived. The rioters 
hadn’t hurt the house much — broken a few windows — he expected 
some of them had got hurt though— he himself had given one of 
them a punch in the nose that he wouldn’t forget in a hurry — didn’t 
know who set them on to the Coombes, wishes he did know — hoped 
it was the man whose nose he punched — didn’t understand Hnglish 
politics himself — thought England was a very nice place, and liked 
Avonham very much — yes, Mas’r Galbraift rode very well, so did 
Ma^’r Bryceson— there were three horses in the stable now; would 
Mr. Rapsey like to look at them? Mr. Pinnitler’s man came round 
twice a day to help— why didn’t Mr. 'Galbraith have more servants? 
Mas’r Hariy trusted everything to ole Red, and ole Red didn’t want 
a whole crowd of women folk around, “don’ light dat ar cigar 
’gain, ^fes’r Rapsey, take ’nudder out’ndat bcxdar, ’n let me make 
nudder tunr’ler ‘ Port Royal Sangaree. ’ ” 

Mr. Rapsey ’s eyes twinkled as he lit another famous cigar, atfef 
a mild protest, and watched Red's deft concoction of the delicious 
draught. When had he had such a morning of delight? Both his 
palate and his curiosity gratified, his eyes delighted by the sight of 
a lump of gold as big as an ostrich egg, his ears regaled with more 
news than he had been able to extract from any one for a month, 
and his thirst slaked with some celestial liquor unknown, he told 
himself, to even the highest among the great ones of Avonham. 
Surely a day to be marked with the whitest and largest of all white 
stones, • - 

And under the combined influence of good spirits, good cigars, 
and Red’s wonderful mixtures, the iieart of the little man opened 
wide, and with it his mouth. He found as an additional pleasure 
that the negro made a most excellent listener, that he replied to his 
local wit with appreciative chuckles and grins, and even with oc- 
casional African cacbinations, which not only gratified, but amused 
him very much. The questions, too, which Red interpolated now 
and then proved to the happy little chatterer how much his^com- 
pan ion was interested in his conversation, and he laid himself out 
to repay, with local intelligence and gossip, the sumptuous hospi- 
tality he had received at the hands of his host. He gave a descrip- 
tion of the principal magnates of the town and their families, con- 
siderably heightened and full of local color. He was not deterred 
now, in his mention of Mrs. Stanhope, by the restraining presence 
of Mrs. Pinnifi:er,_and he did not spare his opinion as to the pre- 
sumed relations between her and the two individuals whom Avon- 
ham had set down as her admirers. As a Blue, he hoped Walter 
Rivers might win the lady, and succeed his uncle in the represen- 
tation of the borough. Kept somewhat in a groove by the questions 
of the negro, he next touciied upon the Bompas family, and *pre- 
sented the young ladies with prospective husbands according to his 
ideas or wishes. It was uncertain which of them Mr. Adolphua 


136 


AS AYOlSr FLOWS. 


Oarter was about to be engaged to, be said. He had questioned Mr. 
Carter on the subject chaffingly only yesterday, and, istrange to say, 
bad met with something like a rebuft; the tempers of young men 
on those points, he said, knowingly, were uncertain, but from the 
young- man’s important manner he had reason to believe it would 
soon be a well-known matter. 

Ned grinned hugely at the profound Knowledge of human nature 
and local matters combined displayed in this remark, and paid 
Timothy a compliment on his shrewdness, which pleased him highly. 

“Really,” he thought to himself, “the negro race has "been 
greatly underrated. This man appreciates me a great deal more 
than half the people in Avonham, who call themselves Christians.” 

At this jimoturQ Ned changed the subject to the recent election, 
and asked Timothy whether Carter Jiad had any connection with it. 

Mr. Rapsey believed that Adolphus was very friendly with Alfred 
Snelman, and that possibly he might have rendered hiin some service 
in the matter, but that having regard to his position- at Mr. Bom- 
pas’s, and the fact that the latter had taken no part in it, he did not 
think it probable. 

Ned proposed another nice cool Sangaree — or would Mas’r Rapsey 
like to taste some real Bourbon .whisky i there was nothing like it 
anywhere else in England, he said. 

Mr. Rapsey jovially assented, and added to his potations a Bour- 
bon straight. 

In about half an hour Timothy discovered that he was mixing up 
the names of a good many of the people of whom he had been talk- 
ing,- and he admired more than ever the great interest evinced in his 
conversation —shown chieliy by the gentle way in which he was every 
now and again led back into the right train of thought and coherent 
speech by the listener— he became confidential about the riot, and 
waxed deeply indignant about the attack on the Coombes. Soon, 
he found — with much the same sort of surprise with which Monk 
Schwartz or Roger Bacon discovered gunpow^der— that Adolphus 
Carter’s name was being connected with the affair, and that he was 
passing from a feeling of utter incredulity about his share in the 
matter to a state of virtuous wrath against him for injuring an in- 
offensive stranger. He next became conscious that he was, some- 
how, taking vast pains to connect Carter with Shelm m and Shel- 
man with the outbreak; and, finally, that whatever information he 
had, respecting either of the two young men, wa^being heartily and' 
effusively placed at the disposal of his dear friend — Mr. Edward — 
who had, he averred, been most shamefully treated — but how, he 
was not quite sure. 

The little man, having taken his leave of Ned as though he were 
parting from his oldest friend forever, *made a bemused and rickety 
progress home, and after a heavy sleep, from which his amazed 
landlady in vain tried to rouse him for his dinner — Timothy was a 
bachelor — awoke with very little idea of the main events of the 
morning’s amusement — save that his indignation had gained him 
the most thoroughly business-like headache he had ever experienced, 
and that his mouth was very dry with over-much conversation. 

But still, there remained stored up in his anything but lofty mind 
one fact, that somehow or othey, he scarcely knew how— having re- 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 




i3r 


gard to the deep affection for Ned that had suddenly seized him it 
was incumbent on him lo consider himself greatly aftronted witli 
both Carter and Shelman, and when he had refreshed himself with 
cold water, eaten- the late meal which had been saved for him, and 
slaked his thirst and steadied his nerves with a copious bowl of tea, 
he had fully settled in his mind that, without revealing the source 
of his knowledge, or betraying his new found friend', he would 
make it his special business to re'prove and punish— directly or indi- 
rectly, or, indeed, both — the conduct of the pair. Having made this 
resolution in the interest of friendship and the preservation of public 
and private morality, Mr, Rapsey sallied forth to spend the evening 
in his accustomed manner. 

Ihe next morning, as Alfred Shelman was leisurely eating his 
breakfast, Adolphus Carter was announced and entered to him in a 
state of great agitation. He waited until Shelman’s man had re- 
tired and then said, in a tone little more than a whisper, 

“ 1 say, Shelman, what on earth’s to be done?” 

“Done? what’s the matter?” 

“ Last night,” said Carter, wiping the cold perspiration from his 
brow, “ 1 was coming home when 1 met little Rapsey, I’ve never 
seen him so before, but he was about half tipsy.” 

“ Well?” 

“ He began to pitch into me about that— that row after the elec- 
tion. '^ouknow.” 

“ Hang the election, and the row after it, too,” said Shelman, 
angrily. 

“ Yes, yes, 1 know you must feel awfully worried over it— but 1 
mean,” said Carter, looking round nervously and glancing at the 
door — as though to make doubly sure that they were alone — “ 1 
mean about the Coombes part of the business, you know.” 

“ Curse the Coombes and its owmer, too,” said the amiable 
Shelman. 

“ W itli all my heart,” said Adolphus, his cheeks reddening; “ I’m 
sure 1 bear him no good will. But do listen, for this concerns you. 

“Me?” 

“Yes.” 

“ In what way?” 

“Why in this: Rapsey ’s found out, somehow or other— not 
through me, for 1 swear I’ve never opened my mouth to a soul— 
that you and 1 planned that affair tpgether. ” 

“ Together,” said Shelman; “ take care w^hat you’re talking about, 
young fellow. Don’t you bring me into the affair, 1 warn you” 

“ Not bring you in?” said Carter; “ why, who proposed the w^hole 
thing?” 

“ You did. You came to me burning with rage against the pair 
of fellows who live there — goodness knows what for — and swearing 
you’d be revenged on them both. What had 1 to do with it?” 

“What had you to do with it? Why just as much as 1 had. 
Didn’t you say you hated Galbraith yourself, and would like to do 
him a turn for coming between you and Mrs. Stanhope about the 
house, and for buying the horse you wanted?” 

“You fool; if the man bought the Coombes was that any reason 
for my smashing the windows of it, or was 1 going to wreck his 


138 


AS AYO^ FLOWS. g 

house tor baying a horse 1 fancied? You’ll accuse me next of get- 
ting up the riot?” 

“ And suppose 1 did,” cried Carter in desperation, as he saw his 
former ally preparing to secure his retreat; “ how far wrong should 
Ibe?” 

.Cornered cowards sometimes make bold strokes. This was a bolder 
one than Shelman had bargained for. He tried to parry it by bully- 
ing. 

“By G — !” said he, starting up and advancing toward CaHer, 
“ if you dare to hint that 1 had anything to do with it I’ll break 
every bone in your body.” 

“ 1 don’t care,” said Adolphus, now fairly at bay; “ I won’t stand 
this sort of life any longer; you can’t kill me anyhow, and I don’t 
believe much in your thrashing me. You’re not Galbraith, or that 
cursed nigger either, and if you put a hand on me I’ll go straight to 
the mayor and tell him all 1 know, and 1 know more than you think, 
too; tor one thing,” he went on, seeing that* the other made no at- 
tempt to approach him, “ 1 know who keeps Mackerell’s people no 
he’s in jail ai Ridgetowo. Ay, and more than that. 1 know—” 

“Hush, you great ass,” said Shelman, peevishly, but with an 
■ abatement of his violent manner; “ sit down and let us talk it over 
quietly. We don’t want all the town to hear us. 1 was hasty, old 
man, ” he added, holding out his hand. “1 know you’re upset a 
bit,, too, or you wouldn’t talk like that, but you can’t imagine how 
the whole aftair has worried me. Here,” he went on, ringing the 
bell, “ let’s have something in, and have a quiet chat over a pipe 
together. is away, I know, so your time’s your own. And 

now tell me all about it.” 

When the servant had placed the desired fluids and tobacco, and 
cleared the breakfast things away, the two conspirators sat down 
together to smoke and to see how the land lay with them. 

To tell the truth Alfred Shelman was supremely uncomfortable 
about the news his visitor had to give him. It was true that the 
riot had broken out in a great measure from an accidental circum- 
stance, but there had been much in it that had been his doing, and 
it had been only by the employment of a good deal of tact and some 
considerable amount of money too that he had been able to close the 
mouths of two or three of the moving spirits among the rioters who 
had been committed to prison for their share in the work, and now, 
if the news was in Rapsey’s mouth, he said to himself, it might as 
well be in the town crier’s; so it^was with more inward fear than he 
cared to acknowledge that he listened to (Jarter’s narration of his 
interview with Timothy. 

That drink- valiant little man, returning from the Bear, slightly 
the worse for his modest potations, taken on top of Edward’s morn- 
ing offerings, had encountered Carter, who was also homeward 
bound. Assuming an air which he intended to be dignified, he had, 
without mentioning the source of his intelligence, terrified Adolphus 
by the information that he knew all about the source of the riot and 
the attack on Galbraith’s house. In his sober moments, Timothy 
would never have ventured to mention Shelman’s name, nor had he 
any real knowledge that the latter had been concerned, but the two 
names were jingling together in his brain, and it became impossible 


AS AVON FLOWS. 


139 


lo scjDtirate them. In common with most chatterboxes possessed ot 
scanty information, Mr. Rapsey drew liberally on his own imagi- 
nation, and, partly aided by the ejaculations and exculpations of 
the astonished and terrified Carter, and 'partly by one or two lucky 
hits, he succeeded in endowing that nervous youth with a conviction 
that his crime and folly and that ot his associate were thoroughly 
known to Timothy, who, in some vague and undefined manner, 
meaint to exact a' stern penalty from each of them for it. He-haci 
sufficient presence of mind to extract from the proposed avenger his- 
promise fhat he would see him on the morrow, and that he would 
take no steps meanwhile. 

Such was the story which he now related to Shelrnan, who seemed 
almost as disturbed as himself. 

Various means of securing Iheir safety were discussed at the sit- 
ting, but two alone seemed to remain for choice: either to bribe the 
little man to silence or to frighten him into retraction. It is need- 
less to say that it was Carter who suggested the, former method, but 
it met with Shelman’s opposition. 

The little beggar’s got plenty of money for himself,” said he; 
“ he banks with us, and 1 know his affairs to a penny. He’s had 
about three hundred a year — of course I’m telling this to you as 
we’re in the mud together — ever sincer he was twenty-one, and al- 
though he’s never done a stroke of work since he sold his business, 
he has never been extravagant in anything, and hasn’t lived up ta 
more than half his income. He’s not at all greedy for money, for 
he could get a good deal better interest in twenty safe things than 
we pay him on his deposit account, and a good many people would 
open their eyes if they knew how much that was; no, money in this 
case isn’t any good, strange to say, and you’re never safe in the 
hands of a man you bribe; we must ride the high horse. Carter, and 
/frighten him. ” 

” How do you propose to do it?” 

” Send him a lawyer’s letter, threatening an action for slander.” 

That’ll frighten him. Whom will you get to do it: not Sennet! ?” 

” Sennett — nonsense! There are more lawyeis in the world than 
Setmett, Leave that to me. If he broaches the matter again, defy 
him, dare him to prove his words, anil before he has time to take 
any steps, we’ll be down upon him with our threat ot action.” 

Yes,” said Carter, doubtfully, ” I’ll see him at once.” 

No, no,” said Shelrnan, ” don’t go a yard out of your way: in- 
deed, try if you can to postpone any interview, without, of course, 
appearing td wish to avoid him. Together with the lawyer’s letter 
he’ll get one from the bank calling on him to withdraw his account, 
and in two days we’ll htve him on his knees.” 

With this pleasing hope the two parted. 

As frequently happens when persons give reproofs and assume 
indignation under spirituous influences, Mr. Timothy Rapsey had 
no intention, when he woke on the morning after he had poured 
out his wrath on Adolphus Carter, of carrying the matter any fur- 
tner; without having forgotten the occurrence, he had done with it 
and put it aside. On the third morning after his visit to Ned, on 
descending the street, he had just given the old postman his cus- 


140 AS AYOK FLOWS. 

\ 

tomary morning salutation, when that worthy, to his surprise, 
stopped him as he was passing. 

“ Hold on a minute, Mr. Rapsey; I've got a two letters for ’ee.” 

“ For me?” said Timothy; “ two letters! Why, dear me, whoever 
can they be from?" 

“ Ah, that’s moor than 1 do know," said the postman, grinning, 
“ but here they be. " 

Mr.^ Rapsey took the letters, and, adjusting his spectacles to his 
~ nose, essayed to open them, tie was awkward at it though, with 
one letter tucked under his arm, and the wind was too high for 
comfortable reading; so, placing both epistles in his pocket, he be- 
took himself home to peruse them in comfort. 

The first that presented itself to his astonished gaze was couched 
in these, to him, incomprehensible words: 

“ 84 Lincoln Inn Fields, 

“ London. 

“ Sir,— W tj are instructed by our client, Mr. Alfred Shelman, to 
enter an action against you for slander, in which our client lays his 
damages at one thousand pounds. 

“ The slander imputed consists in an accusation which you have 
thought fit to bring against Mr. Sbelman, to the efiect that he had 
conspired with another person to wreck and destroy, or cause to be 
so destroyed and wrecked, a certain dwelling-house, situate in Avon- 
ham, and called The Coombes. 

“We shall be glad to be favored with the name of the solicitor 
' who will act for you in this matter. 

“Weave, sir, 

“ Tour obedient servants, 
“Blackwell, Ridley and Groves." 

To say that Timothy Rapsey was scared by the letter would be 
Insufficient; he was almost paralyzed with terror. He read the mis- 
sive twice and groaned over it dismally foi some minutes, with the 
cold sweat of fear pouring^ from him. After some time, he remem- 
bered that there was another. He opened this, and read as follows: 

“ Avonham Bank. 

“Sir, — We have to request that you will have the goodness to 
withdraw both your current and deposit accounts from this bank, 
as we must decline any further transactions with you. 

“We are, sir, 

“ Your obedient servants, 

“ BoLDHAM, HuMBERSTONE, BoLDHAM AND Co. " 

“Goodness gracious me," moaned po(ft Timothy; “whatever 
ahall 1 do?" 

He did the very last thing that his two would be persecutors could 
have imagined. He sat for a few minutes to collect himself, and 
then, with a beating heart and a pale face, betook himself to the 
Coombes. 

It is a dangerous thing to over-ten ify a weak man. Dangerous 
for the actor as well as the agent. The weak man is apt naturally 
to look for help, and he goes to the strongest help he knows of. In 


AS AVOlvr FLOWS. 


141 


place of seeking’ the advice of his friend Sennett, Rapsey determined 
to find Galbraith and lay his trouble before him. His house was 
the cause of the trouble, he argued, ana in bis house had he con- 
<;eived the unlucky notion which had led him into this scrape. 

Mr. Adolphus Carter looked at the poor terrified little man, as 
with trembling limbs and bloodless face he went past Mr. Bompas’s 
office window in South Street. It was a welcome sight to him, for 
Bryceson had a few minutes before driven past with a stranger by 
his side, and Mr. Haraty seated at the back of the dog-cart. What 
a funk the little man looked in to be sure. Adolphus was doubled 
up with laughter; he went to the door to gaze after him down the 
street. 

“ Good gracious, what*s he going in at the gate of the Coombes 
for?'’ said he to himself, and now it was his turn to grow pale. 

Mr. Carter had not forgotten that SheHnan knew absolutely noth- 
ing of his own capture, release, and pardon by Galbraith, and a hor- 
rible thought stole over him tbat Rapsey did know of it, and would 
use the fact as a weapon of defense against Shelman. And they 
had not counted on resistance either. 

Adolphus went back to his desk, smiling no longer. 

Meanwhile, Rapsey had entered the gate and was toltering along 
the path to the door which he had entered so joyfully and quitted 
so jovially on the occasion of his last visit. At the door was Bryce- 
son, talking to a stranger. 

“ Gbod-morning, sir,” said he timidly, and his voice sounded hol- 
low and faint, and unlike his own in his ears. 

” Good-morning, Mr. Rapsey,” said Bryceson cheerily; “what 
brings you this way? What can we do for you?” 

“I was wishful, if you please, sir,” said poor Timothy, “to 
speak to Mr. Edward, it 1 might take the liberty.” 

The terrified little man was quite beaten down by his trouble. 

“ !Ned has just gone over to Avonham Road tor some luggage and 
things,” said Bryceson. “ Can Ido anything for you till he returns?’* 

“ I don’t know, sir,” said Timothy, with his e,yes fixed and stal- 
ing. “ I’m in— in great trouble, sir— see Mr. Gaibraith, sir -these 
letters—” 

And w’ith these wandering words, and with a vain effort to take 
the letters from his pocket, he fell forward into Bryceson ’s strong 
arms. That afternoon, as Adolphus Carter was preparing to leave 
the oflice, a note was handed to him by one of the ostlers at the 
Bear. He opened it and read : — 

“ Bear Hotel, A’ham. 

“ Dear Sir, — As 1 fear Mr. Bompas is absent from home, may 1 
request an interview with you here at your earliest convenience, on 
important business? Yours truly, 

“Fredk. R. Markham.” 

Greatly impressed with a sense of his importance, Carter at once 
proceeded to the Bear, and on asking for Mr. Markham was 
shown upstairs to a private'' room. He waited alone for a minute or 
two, and then, the door opening, the stranger whom he had seen 
that moping seated by Bryceson’s side entered, followed by Bryce- 
son himself. 


AS AYO^T FLOWS. 


, 142 

For the second time that day Adolphus turned pale, and his pal- 
lor was not diminished when Bryceson locked the door, and, point- 
ing to a chair, said sternly— 

“Sit down, Mr. Carter. 1 thought we had done with you the 
other night, but it appears not.” 

Adolphus Carter sat down and waited events in a state of agita- 
tion, almost as great as that ot his victim Timothy Kapsey. 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

’ THE MAKINGS OF A YEHY PRETTY QUARREL. 

In very truth the present position oi Mr. Adolphus Carter was an 
unenviable one, and he mentally cursed his fate for having led him 
a second time into a contest with the inmates of the “ Coombes.” 

He sat white and shivering, and looking first at Bryceson, who was 
leisurely sorting over a few papers which he had taken from his 
pocket, and then at Markham, who stood looking down on him 
gravely and sternly. Adolphus almost wished himself back in the 
dining-room at the Coombes, with the negro’s strong grip on his 
arm. 

There is a certain feeling which comes over the min4 of a mean 
man when he is confronted with courage, integrity and rectitude of 
purpose, which is, perhaps, among the most painful ot all the ex- 
periences that can happen to wrong-doers. That feeling is not one 
of hatred so much as of envy, not so mucli of malice as of admira- 
tion. Sitting there, awaiting his fate, eagerly expectant of the open- 
ing words of a speech and conversation the result of which he could 
not foresee, he was as sincere an admirer of the two young men who 
were about to apply the torture to him as though he had been their 
oldest friend. What would he not give to be able to stand in their 
position? How could he have been so mad— he a puny, weak-head- 
ed frivolous fool, as he told himself he was — as to engage in a con- 
test with men whp seemed to him, as he thought of his own un- 
worthiness, like beings of a different sphere. 

Bryceson sorted his papers for a couple of minutes, and selecting ' 
three from them, laid them on, the table and placed the others in his 
pocket-book; he then turned to Carter and, speaking as though the 
matter in hand were an ordinary business one, said, 

“ Mr. Carter, you know, of course, something of legal matters — 
of ordinary everyday legal matters, 1 mean?” 

, “Yes,” said Carter, in a tone as brisk as he could assume; he 
would make what fight he could of it, he told himself. ? 

“ Yoii know what a power of attorney is?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“ This,” said Bryceson, handing him the topmost of the three se- 
lected papers, “ as you will see, is a power ot attorney from my ^ 
friend, Mr. Henry Galbraith, authorizing me to act in all matters 1 
for him during his absence.” ' 

Carter took the document handed to him and glanced over it, 
principally because it handed to him, and he had no other course. — ^ 

“ Thank you, Mr. Bryceson,” said he, returning it. , 


AS AYON^ FLOATS. 


143 


1 should have acted in this aHair myself,’' said Bryceson, even 
if I had not held this authority, but you will understand that as the 
matter stands I am now proceeding on behalf of my friend Mr. Gal- 
braith ; not from any wish to avoid any responsibility, but because 
1 am sure it is what my friend would have wished.” 

Adolphus inclined his head, having no words with which to reply. 

” {So much for the first paper, which 1 showed you as a matter of 
form,” said Bryceson, ” now for the second. Do you know a firm 
of solicitors in London named Blackwell, Kidley and Groves?” 

“No.” 

Bryceson and Markham exchanged glances. 

” Do you know anything of this letter?” said Bryceson handing 
him the document which had so terrified Timothy Rapsey. 

The letter trembled in Cartel’s hand as he read it. He felt strong 
indignation against Shelman for his utter want ot tact in this action. 
This was a pretty way of bringing Timothy Rapsey to his knees in 
two days, wasn’t it?” . 

The letter took a longtime in reading, short as it was; the two' 
friends remained silent, and Mr. Carter was uninterrupted: his eyes 
were on the words, but after his first reading of them he saw them 
not; he saw through them the angry face of Shelman, the stern feat- 
ures of Galbraith, the righteous wrath of Mr. Bompas, his father’s 
grief stricken face and his mother’s anxious eyes. The silencegrew 
painful to him, but he dared not break it. 6'aintly in the street he 
could hear old Prosser, the bellman and crier, calling' out some an- 
nouncenient; he wondered what it was; the clock above his head lie 
noticed had a loud tick and a slight irregularity in it; they had a 
clock at home something Itke it. Down-stairs somebody laughed in 
the bar-parlor; he felt angry with him for indulgingSin unseemly 
mirth; how could any one laugh at such a time? 

At last he laid the letter down on the table. 

” 1 have never seen it before,” he said. 

”Aou misunderstand my question,” said Bryceson, quietly; ” 1 
asked you whether you know anything of it. Do you?” 

For a uioment or two Carter hesitated, but he felt the game was 
up; he had played cards badly, and the odds were all one way. 

” 1 knew it was going to be sent,” he said. 

Thank you,” said Bryceson; ” now we come to the last of the 
papers 1 have to show you just now.” 

~ He took the bank letter and handed it to Carter. 

” Do you know anything of that?*' 

Hesitation was of no use now. 

” I knew that was going to be sent, too,” he said, and felt that he 
had indeed ” burned his ships.” 

‘‘It is a holograph letter, you will observe,” said Bryceson. 
” May 1 inquire whether you know the handwriting?” 

1 do,” said Carter. 

Will you tell me whose handwriting it is?” 

” Mr. Alfred Shelman’s.” 

“ This other letter, of course, was sent at Mr. Shelman’s instiga- 
tion.” 


144 AS AVON FLOWS, 

“It mentions an accusation of Conspiracy with another person; 
did you notice that.” 

“ Yes,” said Carter, faintly, for he felt that the crisis waa coming 
now. 

“ 1 wanted to draw your attention to that for a special reason,” 
said Bryceson; “ and now, Mr. Carter, 1 will tell you what you are 
perhaps a little curious to know, and that is how those last two 
papers came into my possession.” 

Carter murmured something inarticulate. 

“Mr. Rapsey,” said Bryceson, looking steadily at Carter, who 
quailed before his gaze, “ of whom 1 know nothing whatever be- 
yond what little 1 have seen of him about the town during my stay 
here, came to my friend’s house, which 1 am at present occupying,, 
this morning to see Mr. Galbraith’s servant, whom 1 daresay you 
remember,” 

“ Would he ever forget him?” Carter thought. 

“Mr. Rapsey,” Bryceson went on, “seemed in trouble, and 
proved to be very much upset by the receipt of these two letters. 
He could only account for them in one wa^, and that was this. He 
and Edward had been gossiping together a few days previously, and 
among other topics they hit upon a certain little episode of the night 
of the election day, which night 1 have no doubt you also remember . 
That evening Mr. Rapsey had a conversation with you upon the 
subject, 1 believe?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And to that conversation he attributes, whether correctly or in- 
correctly, these threatening documents, Naturally he is much: 
alarmed at them. Mr. Rapsey does not appear to be what you and 
my friend here would call a business man, and he does not seem to 
be possessed of the necessary strength of mind which enables gen- 
tlemen like yourself to become leaders of men in dangerous and 
sometimes unsuccessful night attacks and riots.” 

“ The “ leader of men ” looked anything but strong-minded a.s he 
moved uneasily in his seat, as though Bryceson’s speech had been 
the lash of a whip descending on his back. 

“Mr. Rapsey ’s first visit,” said Bryceson, “was to Edward. 
Now, Mr. Carter, Edward is not an ordinary servant in any sense 
of the word. Since Edward has been in Mr. Galbraith’s service, he 
has ^ad a good many masters, first and last. Ned has been servant, 
comy)anion, and friend —yes Mr. Carter— to Mr. Galbraith, 
to my friend here, Mr. Markham, to me, and to four or five friends 
of ours, of whom neither you nor any one else in Avonham knows, 
or is likely to know, anything. Mr. Rapsey, of course, was not' 
aware of this; he went to Edward simply because the conversation 
to which, as 1 say, he attributes these letters, occurred betw^een 
them. Very fortunately 1 happened to be in Avonham, hawing 
arrived here this morning, and have taken the matter in nand. This 
is the reason of this meeting this afternoon. You will excuse, 
under the circumstances, the little scheme by which 1 was able to 
insure your presence here, and now having given you an account of 
the matter so far, we will, it you please, proceed to real business.” 

Fred Markham, as if to mark that a point in the negotiations had 


AS AVOK’ PLOWS. 145 

been reached; took a chair and seated himself astride of it, with his 
arms resting on the back. 

“ That business, Mr. Carter,” pursued Bryceson, still in the calm 
and quiet tone which he had preserved from the commencement ot 
the interview, “may be very much simplified by you. 151 o one 
knows so well as you the cause of the attack on Mr. Galbraith’s 
house. You were, according to your own confession to Mr. Bom- 
pas, the leader of the mob on that occasion. 1 cannot see that Mr, 
Galbraith has ever injured you in any way; and that it was a polit- 
^ical matter is out of the question. It is perfectly evident to me that 
you were acting in concert with some one else, if not at his instiga* 
tion. Now, Mr. Carter, we must know, if you please, who that 
person was.” 

Adolphus turned even paler than he had been before; he was be- 
tween the devil and the deep sea with a vengeance. 

“ Suppose,” he said, after a short silence, “ that your surmise 
was wrong, and that it was entirely my own doings.” 

“We will not waste time by supposing anything so foolish, if 
you please, Mr. Carter,’* said Bryceson, quietly. 

“ But,” said Carter, hesitatingl}^ “ you don’t know that 1 did not 
do it of my own accord.” 

“We have our own common sense in the matter, Mr. Carter, be- 
sides one or two little pieces ^of evidence which would perhaps sur- 
prise you if we used them. Do not, 1 beg of you, waste our time, 
although it is not specially valuable just at present; let us know at 
once who inspired you with the idea ot attacking Mr. Galbraith’s 
house?” 

“ It’s not fair — it’s not fair to a^ me,” broke out Adolphus in 
sheer desperation, and momentarily rendered courageous by the 
sense of his position; “ it’s not fair for two of you to get me in a 
room and lock the door and then torture me with questions; you’ll 
thrash me if 1 don’t answer, I suppose?” he said with a snarl; it’s 
cowardly!” 

Bryceson ’s color slightly rose, and he bit his lips before replying. 

“You are as safe from violence here, sir,” he said, “ as though 
you were in your mother’s arms, and I think you know it,” he 
added pointedly. “Now let us distinctly understand each other. 
Do you refuse to give us, for our own satisfaction only— for we 
think we know it alreiidy — the name of the person who instigated 
the attack on the Coombes?” 

Carter paused again. 

“ Suppose 1 refuse to answer any question you put me?” he said. 

“We shall take very prompt measures to compel you to answ'er 
to some one else,” said Bryceson. 

“ How?” said Adolphus, in a hoarse whisper, his lips and cheeks 
ashy white. 

“ In this way, Mr. Carter,” said Markham, speaking for the first 
time. “We have strongly advised Mr. Rapsey to defend the action 
with which Mr. Shelman threatens him, and you will be a witness- 
in that action on one side or the other, 1 venture to say, sir. , In 
addition to that my friend Mr. Bryceson will at once apply to the 
mayor or the magistrates here for a warrant against you for attack- 
ing Mr. Galbraith’s house. It is extremely probable, Mr. Carter^ 


146 AS Avoiir PLOWS. 

that you will give^evidence in the slander case, attired in an unbe- 
coming and not very honoiable uniform. The whole of the ques- 
tions my triend has asked to-day will be put to you^ then, and you 
wu'll not be allowed the latitude that he has shown you in this 
room.” 

“ But,” said Carter, “what better shall 1 be off by telling you 
anything? If the action goes on 1 shall — so you say — be a witness, 
and obliged to tell. ” 

“ 1 fancy not,” said Markham. “ When my friend asked you 
just now not to waste our time, it was not merely our time in this 
room that he meant. You will distinctly understand that, as we 
shall have to deal with a second party, we c_annot make any definite 
and binding promise about the matter, but if you supply us with 
the information we require — and really we only require it of you to 
confirm a suspicion so well founded as to be almost a certainty — 1 
think that there will not be the slightest chance of the action being 
carried on, so that you need not dread your appearance in the wit- 
ness box, nor need you fear any further proceeding against yourself 
on Mr. Galbraith’s part, or on that of his representative? Am I 
right in that last remark, Walter?” 

“ Quite, Fred,” said Bryceson. 

Carter saw that at any rate there was a chance of safety from one 
of the dangers besetting him, and made up his mind to surrender. 

“ 1 must give w^ay to you, Mr. Bryceson,” he said, in a helpless 
tone, “ I will give up the name on those conditions.” 

“We can only make conditions with you for ourselves,” said 
Bryceson; “we cannot absolutely guarantee that the action for 
slander will not be pressed. Dbn’t give us credit for anything but 
straightforwardness in the affair. You must take j^our chance so 
fai as the slander is concerned.” 

“ 1 must do that, 1 suppose. I am willing to give up the name 
of the person who got up the attack on Mr. Galbraith’s house, and 
who set me on to do it.” 

“Who was it?” asked Bryceson. 

“ Mr. Alfred Shelman,” said Carter. 

“Thank you,” said Bryceson; “he is just the person we sus- 
pected. Mr. Galbraith, whose judgment is about as keen as that of 
any man 1 have ever miet, told me before he left Avonham that he 
imagined Mr. iShelman was at the bottom of it. W^ell, Mr. Carter, 
after your confession, 1 think it extremely improbable that you will 
he troubled to give any evidence in imblic. Of course,” he added 
hesitatingly, “ we may rely upon your — your information as being 
correct.” 

“ Quite,” said Carter, in a low voice, but with an evident sense 
of relief after his surrender. 

“ 1 don’t want to ask you anything more compromising than the 
statement you have just" made,” said Markham, “ but can you tell 
me what cause of quarrel this man Shelman had with Mr. Gal- 
braith? So far as 1 can make out, they had never even spoken.” 

Carter had given up the name of his princpal chiefly to place him- 
self in a secur<j position with regard to the two friends y he was not 
wholly displeased at the turn things had taken; it was obvious to 
him that if Rapsey’s cause were espoused by these young men it 


AS AVON FLOWS. 


147 


would become a very strong one^ and one that would terrify even 
Alfred Shelman; it was better, perhaps, on the whole for him to 
enlist at once on their side, at least so tar as giving them all the in- 
formation in his power went, so he replied, 

Mr. Shelman always had a feeling of irritation and jealousy 
against Mr. Galbraith ever since he bought the Coombes.” 

Because he wanted it himself, 1 suppose?” said Bryceson. 

“ Yes, and he was disappointed by Mrs. Stanhope’s refusal to let 
him have the house and land in preference to Mr. Galbraith,” said 
Carter, ‘‘ and Mr. Galbraith bought a horse that Shelman wanted, 
and—” 

” And these,” interrupted Bryceson, unconsciously using the very 
argument which Shelman had himself advanced to Carter at the meet- 
ing which had led to all this trouble, ” these are reasons for attack- 
ing a man and making him the victim of an election not! Well, 
for an old-fashioned town with a three-century-old charter, 1 naust 
say you know how to play it down low on a tender foot. Old Squire 
Gulch wasn’t* so very much ahead of this place in smartness, was 
it, Fred?” 

” Well, we’ve Judge Lynch there for one thing,” said Markham, 
” and upon my word his court wouldn’t work badly here, I fancy. 
Pray, Mr. Carter, can you inform us, without very seriously com- 
promising yourself, how you came to be selected as the instrument 
of this terrible man’s vengeance?” 

If Markham had struck Carter he could not have roused him by 
the blow as he did by his question. Whether it was that he felt 
safe from bodily harm after Bryceson ’s assurance, or whether the 
sense of his injuries took'away his reason, and made him reckless 
of consequences, is not. sure; ceitain it is, however, that he broke 
forthwith into a rage which, without alarming either of his hearers, 
surprised them extremely. 

“How?” he screamed, “how? Because 1 hate your friend; 
haven’t 1 enough cause to?” 

” To hate Galbraith,” said Bryceson, astonished, ** why — ” 

“ To hate him, yes, and you too,” shouted Carter, now quite be- 
side himself. 

” Me?” said Bryceson, opening his eyes to the fullest extent, and 
touching himself on the breast to make sure that it was really he 
whom Carter meant and no One else, “me! Why, you tool, until 
the night after the election 1 had never even spoken to you; what 
reason, in the devil’s name, had you to hate me?” 

“ Why did you come here at all?” cried Carter, foaming with im- 
potent rage; “ I never did a wrong thing in niy life, till Mr. Gal- 
braith came to Avonham ; my employer liked me and trusted me, 
and would have taken me into his business in course of time; my 
father was proud of me — yes, proud of me for it. I haven’t your 
strength and your good looks, and if I am in your hands now I’m 
not a fool at my business, or anything like one — and 1 was popular 
and lespected dl over Avonham. What am 1 now? I’m in your 
power, and your friend has threatened me just now with a jail and 
a convict-’s suit of clothes. What does Mr. Bombas think of me now 
—or my father? You’ll tell me that that change came since the 
election row, and so it did; but I’d plenty of cause to hate you 


148 


AS Ayoiq- FLOWS. 


both before that. The very first words Mr. Galbraith spoke to me 
were insulting, and 1 have never forgotten them; but there’s more 
than that. If you want the real cause I’ll tell you, and 1 don’t 
care what you do to me afterward, you may kill me if you like: 
since you came to this town, I’ve never had a kind word from one 
of Mr. Bompas’s daughters.” 

Markham gave a low, soft whistle at this. 

” 1 had plenty before, Mr. Bryceson! Which of the girls it is 
you are after, and which Mr. Galbraith wants, 1 don’t know, but do 
know,” he added, clinching his hands and tossing his arms with a 
gesture of supreme despair, ” that you' two have come between me 
and my love, and if my power had been e^ual to my will on election 
night you would have remembered it to the day of your death. 
That was the cause, it you want to know it; and, the scheme failed, 
and I’m ruined over it, and 1 curse the day you came into the towm.” 

He had risen to his feet to say all this, and stood facing the young 
man as a hunted beast turns for a last hopeless death-struggle. 
Br^^ceson and Markham had remained seated, the former evidently 
greatly astonished by what he had heard. 

That’s the secret of it, then. Well, Mr. Carter, ‘ we’re very 
much obliged for your frankness, and we have no wish to detain 
you any longer. ” 

Carter seized his hat and turned to go. 

“There is just one last word 1 want to say, Mr. Carter,” said 
Bryceson, “don’t you make any use of the names of those ladies 
in this town over this matter. ” 

“No, 1 will not,” said Carter, still hot, but with returning 
reason. “ I’m not quite such a cad as that.” 

“ I will take your w'ord for it,” said Bryceson, rising; “ and hope 
one day we shall be able to agree to forget this affair. 1 can’t de- 
fend youi conduct in your attack on my friend and myself— for 1 
suppose 1 must include myself now, though I hadn’-t the remotest 
idea of it till now — but I’m less angry with you and more sorry for 
you than you think. Good-day, Mr. Carter.” _ 

Carter opened the door and passed out, with a hardly audible re- 
ply to the salutation, and the friends were left alone. 

“Well, Walter,” said Fred, “that’s the first step, I suppose. 
That’s an interesting young man. It’s a good job for human nat- 
ure round here that that fellow hasn’t an over-burden of pluck. 

He gives me the idea of a man whose malice is only bounded by his 
cowardice. If he’d as much courage as he has spite, he’d make it 
nasty for his enemies. ” ^ ^ 

“ Harry’s right; the dear old fellow has often told us never to de- 3 
spise a fellow because he’s mean and weak. But l am sor^ for him 
too. He’ll come an awful cropper over this business.” j 

“ What did you think of his excuese for hating you?” said Fred; 

“ complimentary to us, wasn’t it, to.be told that he might have had 
his pick of our lady-loves if you and Harry hadn’t turned up? Of ■ 
course he knows nothing about me and Lucy, but the principle’s the ' 
same.” ^ i 

“ It don’t quite bear thinking of,” said Bryceson; “ Well, I’ve . ^ 
shaped out my course with Shelman.” 

“ He won’t bring his action against that poor little man, will he?” j 


.> V 


-■■ ■•"■' ■ ^ ;c ' ’ ■■ 

- ' ^ AS AVON FLOWS. 149 ' 

1 don’t fancy he will, after 1 have done with him.” : 

” Ned worked the little fellow beautifully, didn’t he?” 

“Splendidly. .1 must write to Harry about it. I don’t see yet 
any connection between this matter and the other, though.” 

“ Nor 1; unless indeed this man Shelman has made it up with 
the widow, and she has set him on to Harry, suspecting who he is.” 

“ You forget she has never seen Harry, nor even heard his name; 
he always went by Reginald’s until he came to us.” 

“True; 1 wonder whether she will recognize me? — it may spoil 
all if she should. But 1 don’t fancy she will. Ten years and more 
make a difference, and we weren^t so intimate after all. How 
carefully Harry followed her up.” 

“ Yes, he did; and if Reginald hadn’t been discovered by the old 
squire, 1 wouldn’t have cared to stand in her shoes. Let us go 
down-stairs.” 

Mr. Pinnifler and'Mr. Barnabas Chickleholt were in the room • 
when 4hey entered, and both looked somewhat curiously at them. *- 
They had setn Orrter’s abrupt departure, for he had gone straight ' ' 
out into the street, looking white and ill, and without exchanging 
any greeting with any one, and they w^ondered what was afloat. 
They got, however, no information out of the two friends, who 
drank a glass of wine together and left. * 

Carter left the house burning with a double rage —rage against both 
Bryceson and Shelman. By one he had been made a catspaw, by 
the other he had been treated as a cur. Carter felt that Bryceson 
must have been sure all along that he would divulge at once the 
name of his principal, and that he would betray him the moment 
pressure was put upon him. He despised himself for being a cow- 
ard, but he did not blame himself. He even caught at the fact of 
his rage against Shelman as some sort of excuse for his having be- 
trayed him to his enemies. But, over and ovei again, as he went on 
his way, he was vowing vengeance against all those whom he con- 
sidered arrayed against him. Not only against Bryceson for having 
brought him to bay, and wrested his secret from him, but against 
Galbraith lor having come to Avonham at all, against the Bompas 
family for having tolerated him, against Shelman for having at- 
tempted to interfere with him, against Edward tor his suspicions, 
and Rapsey for his garrulity; he inveighed against them all. One 
thing he had made up his mind to do, and that was to have it out 
with Mr. Alfred Shelman as soon as possible. 

He burst in upon that gentleman that evening as he was sitting at 
home, and broke into a storm of reproach and invective, which 
alarmed and surprised Shelman not a litile. Incoherently he poured 
out up6n him a disconnected account of how their scheme had 
failed, mixed with bitter lamentations for his own position, and 
warnings to him to avoid a like fate. Shelman’s was not the temper 
to allow him to sit patiently under such an outbreak. 

“ Sit down, curse you!” he shouted, “ have you gone mad, Carter? 
YV'ill }mu give me a sensible account of what has happened, or will 
you stop your gibbering and get out?” 

Thus checked, he partially recovered himself, and putting a strong 
restraint upon himself, was able to let Shelman know approximately 
how matters stood. It was Shelman’s turn to get angry now; he 


]50 


AS AYOJSr PLOWS.. 

fairly boiled over with rage and chagrin. For the third time that 
day his cowardly associate was panic-stricken; he raved at him for 
his stupidity, his bungling and his cowardice; he cursed Eapsey for 
his tale-beaiing, and the very existence of Galbraith, Bryceson, Mrs. 
Stanhope, and the opposite political party were sufficient ground for 
him to indulge in a torrent of vituperation against them. The way 
in which he vowed vengeance against them, almost persuaded Car- 
ter that he was on the strong side after all, and that this shouting, 
bullying, cursing friend of his was a match for his opponents yet. 

But all his raving and raging, though it relieved him, could not 
conceal from Shelman the fact that he had been outwitted, and that 
his position was serious. He had compromised himself in several 
ways. He knew, though no one else did, the part he had taken 
after the election, and how much of the riot was due to him; that 
was bad enough by itself. In addition to that, he had, on his own 
responsibility, and without the knowledge of his uncle, who was 
away from the town, ordered- the closing of the accounts of a very 
good bank customer, not anticipating for a moment that he said clos- 
ing of account would ever be likely to occur, and he had threatened 
with an action for. slander a man, who, instead of flinging himself 
at his feet and praying for mercy, had discovered, through his 
very weakness, friends who not only were prepared to resist him 
vigorously, but were in possession of a fact, which of itself justified 
the so-called slander. His political position in Avonham and his 
position as a partner in the bank seemed alike imperiled and threat- 
ened by those whom he most hated and despised. 

It is probable that the dreams of both Carter and Shelman were 
troubled that night; but at any rate the night watches brought con- 
sideration, and Shelman had something like a plan in his head when 
morning came. He had reflected that it was ruost probable that 
Bryceson had obtained the information respecting the riot simply 
with a view to use it as a means of defending Timothy Rapsey from 
the consequences of an action. Well, the action would not be brought, 
of course, and the necessity tor using the information having passed 
away, it was probable that it would not be used. He would see 
Rapsey hmself at his house, and must make up his mind to eat a 
little humble pie before him; his influence surely had not all faded 
in the little man’s eyes, and a little concession and condescension 
would work marvels with Timothy. He would put the action and 
the bank affair straight, and thus remove two great stumbling blocks 
out of his way; and with respect to other matters, he must take the 
risk. Only, he told himself, and his blustering of the night before 
had blinded his eyes to the fact, he must be careful how he went to 
work, either now or at any future time, with the young men at the 
Coombes. Great as was the Opinion which he held of his own im- 
portance, and his -great abilities, he was unable to shut his eyes to 
the fact that those gentlemen seemed to be armed at all points and 
to be men of no ordinary calibre whom it were better policy to leave 
entirely alone. 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 


151' 


CHAPTER XIX. 

QUITE AGAINST LAW AND ORDER. 

The morning commenced with a little game ot cross purposes. 
Two persons were much disappointed, too. In a small town like 
Avonham, consisting, as we have seen, of one long main street, a 
market place, a church-yard, and two side streets, to meet a man 
whom you wanted was an easy matter, provided always thatdhe man 
• was in town. The general mode adopted was this. We will say, 
lor, example, that an Avonham Smith wishes to meet, for business 
purposes, an Avonham Jones. Smith walks out in the morning, and 
calls at Jones’s house. Failing to find him at home he calls at the 
office of White, the shop of Black, and the hotel of Robinson. To 
each of these citizens he confides the fact that he wants to see Jones; 
meeting two more acquaintances in the street he delivers the same 
meosage “ in casdTyou might see ’em.” Then he trusts to chance 
and his friends. Each of the latter tells a friend that Smith wants 
dones, and in half an hour’s time half the town knows the fact, 
dones will hear that Srnith wants him for hours after he has seen 
him, and, grown callous ^by long custom, will forty times reply to 
the question, ‘‘ have ’ee seen Smith?” 

Neither oi the two seekers acted on the time-honored and well- 
nigh infallible plan to-day, each for reasons of his own, and each 
was disappointed.. 

The two wete Alfred Shelman, whom, by this time, we know, 
and Mr. Jared Norton, cashier of the Avonham Bank, whom vfe 
have once seen. 

Alfred Shelman’s object was to see Timothy Rapsey; Jared Nor- 
ton’s object was to see Alfred Shelman, and each, that morning, 
failed. 

After a breakfast eaten more hastily than usual, Shelman entered 
the dog-cart which was waiting for him at the door by his overnight 
order, and, driving past the just-opened bank, turned into the side 
street past the church-yard, pulled up at the door of the house in 
which Mr. Rapsey lived, and asked to see him. 

” Mr. Rapsey ain’t at home just now, sir,” said the landlady, with 
many courtesies and bobbings. 

“Dear me, that’s very unfortunate,” said Shelman; will you 
tell Mr. Rapsey that 1 want to see him very particularly?” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, certainly, sir,” said the dame. 

” Ask.fiim, will you, whether he will step up to my house and 
have a bit of lunch with me at one o’clock. You won’t forget, will 
you?” 

” Oh, dear me, no, Mr. Shelman,” said the landlady, highly 
■ gratified, for to lunch with Mr. Shelman was, in her eyes, to sit 
amongst great ones, and she felt that the honor done to her lodger 
reflected on herself. 

Disappointment number one! 

Shelman turned and drove back to the bank. He did not get 


152 


AS AVON FLOWS. 


down, but one of the clerks, a junior, came out with a letter, which? 
he handed to him. Shelman opened and read it. 

It is from Mr. Millard,” he said. ” I am just going out to 
Beytesbury to see him. - There is nothing else, is there?” 

“No, sir,” 

“ Is Mr. Norton in?” 

“He has been, sir,^ and opened the letters, after which he went 
out immediately, saying he should not be long. He gave ns out tho 
letters. There is nothing special in them, sir.” 

“ Tell him 1 called.” 

“Yes,. sir.” 

Shelman gave the reins to the horse and bowled away, leaving 
behind him the man who was seeking for him in great uneasiness^ 
of mind. 

The cause of Mr. Norton’s perturbation was this; he Was accus- 
tomed to open all letters received at the bank, with the exception ot 
those addressed specially to Mr. Boldham or Shelman. The corre- 
spondence that morning had not be.en heavy; the local farmers and! 
tradesmen, with whom the bulk of the business lay, were fonder of 
transacting their affairs by personal interview than by letter, but 
one ot the missives had greatly astonished him. Had the spire of 
St. Hildegard’s walked into the bank and requested him to discount 
its weather cock, he would have been scarcely more surprised than 
he was by the receipt of a letter from Timothy Rapsey, which stated 
that, in reply to their (the bank’s) commuliication, he would present 
himself at their establishment that day for the purpose of withdraw- 
ing both his deposit and current accounts, as requested. As re- 
quested! Mr. Jared Norton called for the letter-book; there was no 
copy of any such letter! He himself had heard nothing of the mat- 
ter, and it surpassed anything in his experience. Mr. Rapsey, he 
reasoned, had banked with them for years and years, and was just 
the sort ot a customer with whom the country banker delights to 
do business, a man with an ever-growing rate of interest in lieu of 
investing elsewhere. It was incomprehensible to him; perhaps Mr, 
Shelman might know something of it. He would not even wait for 
him to visit the bank, but would go and see him at once. 

Now, had Mr. Norton informed one of his clerks where he was 
going, he would have been told that the gentleman of whom he was 
in quest had just driven past, but he kept his' own counsel and 
turned into the main street as Shelman turned into the side one 
where Rapsey lived. When he reached Shelman’s house the door 
was opened by a maid-servant, ignorant that her master was out, 
for he had driven out the back way. He seated himself in the din- 
ning-room and waited fully, ten minutes before the girl returned and 
informed him that she had discovered that Shelman had left home. 
Making his way back to the bank, Mr. Norton, to his great chagrin,, 
was made acquainted with the young man’s visit, and retired to tho 
bank parlor lamenting his ill-luck in not catching him. 

Disappointment number tw^o ! 

Mr. Norton resumed his accustomed seat, and waited for the 
course of events. 

At eleven o’clock Timothy Rapsey entered. 

The double burden of business which he did not understand, and 


AS AYO^r FLOWS. 


153 

a secret which he must not divulge, had changed the little gossip’s 
cheery bird-] ike face into a countenance of a sphink-like mystery and 
direful potent. Jared Norton, w^ho ha'd known him for thirty years, 
stared at him in amazement. 

“ Will you step this way, Mr. Rapsey?” said he, not giving 
Timothy an opportunity of stating his business before the cleiks. 

He led the way to the bank parlor, where he gave the visitor a 
seat, and waited in great curiosity for his opening address. 

“ 1 suppose 5%u got my letter, Mr. Norton?” said Timotky. 

“ Yes, Mr. Rapsey, ! did, and 1 was never more surprised in—” 

“ Surprised, Mr. Norton! what; didn’t you know of it, then?” 

“Not one word, my dear sir, not one word, 1 assure you,” an- 
swered the cashier. 

“ Well,” said Timothy, taking a paper from his pocket, “ there’s 
the letter that brought me here, Mr. Norton; maybe you know who 
sent it.” 

Norton gravely perused the letter, which we have already seen, 
and handed it back to its owner. 

“ It is correct enough, Mr. Rapsey,” said he, “ although 1 knevv 
nothing^ of it, and I’m very Sony to see it now.” 

“ I’ve banked here. a good many years, and never thought to be 
served this way,” said Rapsey, ruefully: “ but,” be added, perking 
himself up like a bantam cock, “i ain’t under no obligation to the 
bank so far as I can see, and ’tis your loss, not mine.” 

“ But, dear heart ali^re, Mr. Rapsey,” said Norton, “ is it well to 
lall out with us like this? VYhy — ” 

“ Now, Mr. Norton, I put it to you. Is it fair, after that letter, 
to say as I’ve fell out with you?” 

“ Well, well, perhaps not, Mr. Rapsey; but won’t you see Mr. 
Bhelman himself about it when he comes in?” 

“ Mr. Suelmam was round to my place this morning, about an 
hour ago, and 1 was out.” 

“ Why, that must have been whilst I was looking after him about 
this very matter, Mr. Rapsey.” 

“ ’Tis likely. Mr. Shelman leaved a message to my house for me 
to come up and have lunch with him at one o’clock, d’ye see, ^|4r. 
Norton?” 

** Why, that’s right,” said Jared, much relieved, “ that’s right; 
you can talk it — ” 

“Ah, but look ’ee here— see, Mr. Norton,” said Timothy, em- 
phasizing his words with his forefinger on the palm of his other 
hand, “ L won’t go, y’ know!” 

Jared stared. 

“Mr. Shelman,” said Timothy, with the same finger and palm 
play, “ have a threatened me with an action — ” 

Jared started and stared yet more. 

“ And Mr. Shelman have written to me,” pursued Timothy, “ for 
me’to draw all my money away. Now, Mr. Norton, 1 b’ain’t going 
to be put upon by Mr. Shelman, n’yet no one else, and so, as it sims 
likely as 1 shall want my money to pay law expenses, I'm come for 
it now, according to this letter.” 

Mr. Norton shook his head regretfully, but saw no solution of the 
difliculty 


154 


AS AVON PLOWS. 


“ Will you take the money now, Mr. Hapsey?’" said he. 

“ It you please, Mr. Norton. You’ve got my pass-book, and I’ve 
brought my deposit note and check book, and if you’ll let me know 
what I’m to draw for, I’ll do’t at once and take all away together. 

Jared Norton gave up the business of persuasion in despair. The 
whole thing was, so far as he was concerned, wrapped in mystery, 
and" quite outside his banking experience. He sent tor the book, 
and carried out the calculations necessary for a final closing of the 
accounts. Having done this with the air of a martyr, he informed. 
Timothy of the amount standing to his credit in their books under 
both heads. 

Timothy produced his check book with an air of great dignity 
and proceeded to fill in the partly- written check Which he had pre- 
pared for the occasion. It was a tolerably large sum, and, annoyed 
as he was, the little man could not resist a feeling of satisfaction aa 
he wrote the three figures after the £, Not many men in Avonham, 
he thought, as he gazed complacently at them, would write such a 
check for one sum at once that year. But the amount on deposit, 
all of which Mr. Rapsey asked for in notes, was something to look 
complacent fiver. Shelman had not spoken lightly when he told his 
confederate to what state of comfort Mr. Rapsey ’s frugality had 
brought him. 

He left the room and went to the front office of the bank itself to 
receive the notes. As Norton finished counting the amount of the 
current account, Mr. Beadlemore Aito entered with a check. He 
shook hands with Timothy, gave “ good-day ” to the cashier and 
clerks, and stood waiting his turn.” 

Mr. Arto was not curious — oh, dear, no! — but he was not unwill- 
ing to notice, and Mr. Rapsey was not unwilling that he should 
notice, the amount which he received. Mr. Arto opened his eyes 
but said nothing. 

Jared Norton then, with a face full of unutterable things, handed 
solemnly to Rapsey a second sheaf of notes, and held out his hand 
for Mr. Beadlemore Arto’s check. That worthy’s eyes were dilated 
to their fullest extent as he noted the sum that his crony was count- 
in^*over. When he had counted them twice, Timothy put the notes 
carefully into a large envelope which he had brought with him, and, 
placing this in his breast pocket, carefully buttoned both his inner 
and outer coats, and bade Mr. Norton and the clerks good-day. Mr. 
Arto received the money for the check which he presented, and fol- 
lowed him out. . 

“ Where be goin’ to?” was his salutation. 

“ Up to Chris Raraty’s,” replied Timothy. “ 1 want to see ’m.’^ 

“ He’s over to Pinnifter’s,” said Arto. “ 1 see him goin’ in as 1 
went into th’ bank just now. ” 

“ Ah, 1 do want him to let me have a trap to drive over to Ridge- ^ 
town on a bit o’ business,” said Timothy. 

“ Be ’ee goin’ to buy the place, Timothy Rapsey, that ye’re taking 
all that cash over there with ’ee. T’ood be w^orth any one’s while to 
toiler and stop ye on the road,” said Mr. Beadlemore Arto, laugh- 
ing at his own wit. 

“ No, I’m not,” said Timothy, his face lowering in spite of the 
comfortable feeling of the notes in his pocket. “I’ve been and 


AS AYOJST FLOWS. 155 

drawed all my money out o' Boldham’s Bank, and I’m goin’ oyer to 
Kidgetown to put it in the North Marlshire.” 

“ Drawed all yer money out o' Boldham’s!" said Beadlemore 
Arto, stopping in his surprise and staring hard at Timothy, as though 
he were demented; “ why, what in the name o' sense and patience 
did 'ee do that for?" 

" 1 were told to," said Timothy. 

" Why, who upon earth told ’ee? asked Beadlemore, still staring, 
it anything, wider lhan ever. 

" 1 musn’t tell 'ee," said Timothy, the sense of his secret again 
weighing on him. " Now, don't ask me; 1 really can’t tell 'ee,' 
’tis a secret, and don't for pity’s sake say anythiag about it!Y 

Mr. Beadlemore Arto resumed his progress, and the pair entered 
the familiar room together and found their cronies Assembling pretty 
much as usual. Mr. Raraty was, as Had been said, amongst the 
company, and Mr. Rapsey was not an hour older before, seated in a 
dog-cart behind a good-looking but steady-going mare, belonging to 
that gentleman, he was well on the way to Ridgetown. He left be- 
hind him in Avonham a very thoughtful and puzzled man in Mr. 
Arto. 

That worthy pondered deeply over the words which Timothy had 
let fall. From whence he got his information (for he had no idea 
of the real state of the case, nor dreamed that the bank authorities, 
or one of them, at least, had told him to withdraw his account), he 
could not imagine; it was sufficient for him that it had been done 
under his eyes, and that there was a screw loose somewhere. Was 
it with the* bank? Mr. Arto’s transactions in corn, hay, oats, and 
straw were large and many, and his standing balance was not large 
in proportion to his trade; nevertheless, it was large enough to make 
him feel uneasy about it in the face of what he had seen. He went 
home, took out his check-book and drew a check which reduced his 
balance to a very small sum indeed. He took it into the bank with 
an excuse ready: a contemplated cash purchase on a large scale: he 
had sometimes had to do so before. Norton heard his explanation, 
made no comment; but paid him the money cheerfully enough. In 
half an hour, Mr. Follwell came in and drew five hundred pounds: 
this was not unusual. Following closely on his heels, came 
Wolstenholme Pye, who was going to Bristol market on the next day 
it appeared, and who, also, presented a heavy check. These were 
succeeded by ex-Mayor Killett, Mr. Pollimoy and Mr. Barnabas 
Ohickleholt, who all appeared constrained in their manner, and were 
armed with checks for somewhat abnormal amounts, made payable 
to “ Self." By one o’clock, Mr. Norton was getting a little fidgety. 
There was nothing like a run on the bank, and, "knowing the re- 
sources he had at hand, he felt that even had that happened no real 
barm could come to such a steady and solvent establishment. But 
his experience told him that, setting Timothy's matter aside, this 
was the heaviest moining's draw he had ever had on a(»non-market 
day, and he shrewdly guessed that news of the transaction of the 
morning was circulating among the particular circle to which Mr. 
Rapsey was especially affiliated, that a mistaken idea of its nature 
bad arisen, and that a wind of suspicion was beginning to^ blow on 
the credit of the bank. He dispatched an urgent note to Alfred 


156 V AS AYOK FLOWS. 

Shelman, begging him to come on to the bank at once on most im- 
portant and pressing business. 

Shelman’s errand that morning had been to Beytesbury to com- 
plete with Mr. Millard the arrangements fox the purchase of the land 
belonging to the latter, which Shelman wanted for his new house. 
All the points in question having been amicably discussed, and 
actual signature and transfer of deeds and payment of money being 
alone necessary to finish the business, Mr. Millard had returned to 
Avon ham with Shelman, and had proceeded to the office of his 
friend Sennett to give him final instructions. Alfred had mean- 
while gone to his house in the expectation of being shortly and 
punctually waited upon by Timothy Rapsey, whom a little condescen- 
sion and a little champagne would reduce to a peaceable and forgiv- 
ing condition. To his surprise, however, Timothy had not been 
seen, and, in the midst of his wonder at his absence, Norton’s mes- 
sage came; he immediately proceeded to the bank, expecting noth- 
ing more important or pressing than that his signature was required 
for some special piece of business. 

Old Norton met him, wearing an anxious appearance, which he 
noticed as he passed through the front office. 

“ What’s the matter, Norton,” he said, as he seated himself in a 
chair in the parlor, whither the cashier followed him. 

“lam glad you have come, Mr. Alfred,” said Norton; “ 1 was 
getting rather anxious without you. 1 have had a very heavy 
morning.” 

Alfred Shelman did not answer, but awaited the business for 
which it had been deemed necessary to summon him. 

The old cashier waited a moment for him to speak; but, receiving 
no reply, went on — 

“ Mr. Rapsey has been here this morning, sir. ’ ’ 

“Ah!” said Shelman, suddenly evincing an interest in what was 
going forward. 

“ 1 tried to see you this morning,” saidNorton, “ but we unfortu- 
nately missed each other. 1 got a letter from Mr. Rapsey, in 
answer to one from this office, informing us that he would call and 
remove his accounts, as requested in our communicatton. Mr. 
Alfred, there is no trace of that letter in the copying book, and, of 
course, 1 know nothing of it.” 

“No, no, 1 know,” said Shelman, hastily. “1 wrote it myself 
and did not copy it — well, what did Rapsey say? 1 invited him to 
lunch lo-day, to talk the matter of over; 1 suppose he didn’t get the 
message in time. ” 

“ He got the message, Mr. Alfred,” said Norton, hesitatingly,, 
“ but— but he told me that he— he should decline to accept it.” 

“He did?” said Shelman, and his face assumed a dis'turbed 
appearance. - 

” He seemed very determined in the matter, and spoke of some 
action whichYou were bringing against him,” said the old cashier, 
with a questioning look which Shelman did not regard, “ and 
finally he drew a check for his current account, and withdrew his 
deposit as well.” ^ 

Shelman sprung to his feet with an oath, as the consequences of 


AS ATOK FLOWS. 157 

Lis folly flashed across him. He would have a pretty quarter of an 
hour with his under when he'caine to hear of it. 

“Of course 1 had no alternative in the face of j^our letter but to 
give him what he demanded,” said Horton, “ and 1 paid him. 1 
fear that is not the worst of it. ’ ’ 

“ What else is there?” said Shelman. 

“Why, Mr. Alfred,” said Horton, lowering his voice and ap- 
proaching nearer to Shelman, “ 1 fear that some mischief may follow* 
Mr. Arto was here when 1 was paying Mr. Rapse}^ and they went 
out together. Hot very long after Mr. Arto came back and drew a 
good round sum, and soon after that Mr. Follwell had five hundred 
pounds; since then we have had Mr. Pye, Mr. Killett, Mr. Chickle- 
holt and Mr. Poilimoy, all drawing, all checks to ‘self,’ and all 
almost down to the lowest possible balance. 1 don’t like the look 
of it, sir. They’re all friends of Mr. Rapsey and all in one clique, 
and it’s hard to say what rumors may get about in this place. It’s 
' not a good town to keep a secret in is Avonham, and we may have 
a run upon us at a moment’s notice.” 

1 he old fellow looked grave; Shelman alarmed. 

“ But we’ve nothing to fear from that,” said the latter, after a 
moment’s thought. “We could pay every current account five 
times over.” 

“ If 1 didn’t know that,” said the elder man, smiliag, “ 1 should 
be worse upset thap 1 am. But a run never did a bank any good 
yet, sir, and never will. People may say that the fact of standing 
against a run is a good advertisement, but I doubt it. There are 
always plenty of people who’ll declare you only pulled through by 
the skin of your teeth; most of them are outs'iders, it’s true, who 
never had a banking account in their lives, tut talk’s talk, and it 
tells; and, then again, jmu’lL always find you lose two classes of 
customers after a crisis; those who are afraid of 3a)u, and those 
who are ashamed of themselves for having doubted you, and don’t 
like to come back to you again. Ho, Mr. Alfred, I’m not afraid, of 
a run, but 1 don’t want to see one, and whatever this matter is with 
Mr. Rapsey and you, I’m very sorry it ever occurred, and I hope 
it’s not gone so far but it can be put rigjit.” 

The old man spoke firmlj^ and looked as if he were uncertain how 
his words would be taken. Shelman, however, was too keen not to 
see that he was talking sound common sense, and he received the 
counsel readily. 

“You're right, Horton; the fact is I've been over hasty with 
Rapsey over an election matter, and 1 thought to give him a bit of a 
scare, that’s all, upon my word, and he has taken the matter more 
-seriously than 1 thought he would.” And he explained to Horton 
the circumstances of the case. 

“ Law’s a funny thing to play with,” said the cashier, when he 
had heard the tale; “ take my advice, Mr. Alfred, make the matter 
right with Rapsey, and get his accounts back here again. It’ll be 
better for alt parties, I’m sure.” 

“ 1 will take your advice, Horton,” said Alfred Shelman ; “ I’ll see 
the little ass at once. You needn’t fear,” he added, laughing, “1 
won’t treat him roughly. I’ll smooth him down the right way.” 

“1 hope you may, sir,” said Horton; and he returned to his 


.158 AS AVOif FLOWS. 

duties whilst Shelman took his hat and quitted the bank in search 
of Timothy Tiapsey. 

Mr. Rapsey was not at home, for the second time that day; his 
landlady was quite concerned that Mr. Shelman had missed him 
again; perhaps, she added, Mr. Shelman, it he didn’t mind going 
there, might find him at the Bear. 

To the Bear then he directed his steps. 

That famous hostel filled, as will doubtless have been observed, 
moie functions than that of providing good cheer for the wayfarer; 
it was the Exchange of Avonhara, the local Parliament House or 
talking -shop of the place, and half the business of the town was 
transacted under the vaulted roof its ancient gateway or in its spa- 
cious paneled rooms. Quarterly sessions, revising barrister’s courts, 
tolzey and brewsler sessions, leet juries; all had had, in past times, 
their head-quarters at the Bear, and down to our own day was held 
under its gateway, on Great Cheese market-day, one of the most 
curious remnants of bygone times, a court of pie poudre, which now, 
1 believe, only survives, if indeed it survive there, in a yearly 
appeal ance in the Broadmead at Bristol. So that even so mighty 
an Avonham potentate as Mr. Alfred -Shelman lost none of his dig- 
nity in repairing to the great meeting-place of the town^in search of 
another citizen. 

But, important as was his business, he little guessed what would 
be the termination of his visit there that day. 

The first person whom he saw was Miss Pinniffer, seated at the 
window of the bar, brave in lilac poplin and cherry-colored ribbons. 
In answer to his queries, Miss Pinnifter informed him that Mr. 
Rapsey was not there — had gone out driving somewhere. Mr. 
Raraty Was in the parlor and could tell him where, no doubt. Shel- 
man opened the door of the apartment and walked in; as he did so 
he heard from the lips of Mr. Barnabas Chickleholt, who was grufler 
than usual, the closing words ot some oracular sentence that he had 
evidently been favoringliis cronies with, about matters at the Avon- 
ham bank. 

“ - — to look after his own interest, and, break or not break, I’m 
very glad as I’m on the right side of the hedge myself. They’re 
welcome to what I’ve left them. ” 

Jack Rann took up his parable in a tone of some excitement. 

1 believe— ” he cried. 

W hat Mr. Rann’s creed on the point under discussion was, will, 
perhaps, never be known; at any rate, eventa crowded so thick on 
the enunciation of its first two words that it was never finished. 
Shelman entered the room, and Mr. Raim’s mouth closed with a 
nervous snap. 

Shelman took no notice of any of the words which he had heard, 
although he had some difficulty in restraining himself; he looked 
smilingly round the room and gave as near an approach Lo a cheery 

Good-morning, gentlemen ” as was possible from one of his un- 
amiable temperament. 

“ Good-morning, sir,” replied the^ room, not without a sense of 
guilt upon those who had just been discussing the very man whom 
they were saluting, , - 

” Can 1 ha^e a word with you, Raraty?”- said Shelman. 


AS AVO^^ FLOWS. 159 

Certainly, sir,” said the postmaster, rising fronv his seat with, 
alacrity and advancing to the door. 

” Do you know where Mr. Rapsey has gone to?” 

” He’s taken one ot my dog-carts, and gone to Ridgetown,” said 
Cristopher Raraty. 

” Ah,” said Shelman, ” 1 wanted to see him before he went, but 
presently will do as well; would you be good enough if you should 
see him when he returns, to tell him 1 should like to- have a word 
with him up at my house.’' 

Mr. Raraty promised to convey the message. 

It was Shelman’s object tu remain a few minutes in the room, 
quite at his ease, partly with a view of reassuring the minds of the 
assembled friends, all of whom he saw were customers of the bank, 
by his appearance of unconcern, and partly to ofter any one of them 
an opportunity of speaking to him on the subject which he knew 
was uppermost in each man’s mind, in order that he might be able, 
without appearing to volunteer any information, to set at rest any 
doubts which might have arisen respecting the stability of his firm. 
He stood and sipped a glass of sherry and chatted with one or -two, 
but his object was defeated ; his questions were answered, but no 
more — a chill seemed to have fallen on the room and an uneasiness 
in his presence, coupled with an absolute disinclination to talk, 
totally foreign to the nature of the gathered cronies in the company 
of one of their local great ones. Qn an ordinary occasion he would 
have had every one to reply to; topics of alt kinds would have been 
started for the sake of getting his opinion or his criticism, and 
little Timothy Rapsey would have been present as collector-in-chief 
of all his sayings, and snapper-up of all the trifles of his conversa- 
tion which might appear likely to be of service at any future sym- 
posium. But now the little man whom he had barely tolerated, 
except at the bank, and, whom he had looked upon merely as an 
animated little puppet who occasionally made him smile, was all in 
all to him, and his absence meant he knew not what evils and 
dangers to him, and the rest of the men sat silent and glum, with a 
silence and glumness that was almost threatening. He soon ceased 
the attempt to engage any one in connected conversation and stood 
moodily drinking a second glass of' wine, for which he had called, 
in his usual sullen stand-off manner. 

When he had finished this he laid'' down the glass and a shilling 
beside it on the half-door of the little glass bar which communicated- 
with the parlor, and went out, bestowing a parting salutation on 
the company as gruff and ungracious as Sir. Barnabas Chickleholt 
could have feigned, and with an ill-temper very foreign to the 
nature of that grim personage, who, like another and more celebrated 
man, had nothing of the bear about him except the skin. 

The conversation did not at once recommence. Shelman had 
left the room but not .the hotel, as they could hear his voice in the 
passage in conversation. John Rann was the first to break the 
silence. 

‘‘Well, that don’t seem very much like anything being wrongs 
With the l3ank, Mr. Chickleholt,” said he, in a low tone, however. 

Rann, who had been one of the strongest partisans of Mr. Bold- 
ham at the election, had constituted himself the champion of the 


160 


AS AVOK FLOWS, 

^ bank at this juncture, and had, previous to Shelman’s entry, been 
* ridiculing the idea ot any suspicion of its solvency and stability. 

“ No one have said in my nearin’,” growled Barnabas, ” as there 
Was anything wrong with the bank. ” 

“No, no,” said Wolstenholme Pye. 

“ Oh, dear, no,” chimed in Hoppener Pye.” 

” Well, you’re mighty particular about terms, 1 think,” said the 
market clerk, > 

A man has to be keerful nowadays what ’a do say,” chimed in 
the Nestor of Avonham, old ” Mas’r Killett.” 

” ’Bilged to be,” said Hoppener Pye, turning to Rann, as though 
to apologize for Chickleholt. 

“ Forced to be,” said Wolstenholme Pye. 

Rann leisurely finished the loading of his pipe, struck a villainous 
^sulphur match which made Hoppener Pye splutter and his brother 
cough, waited for the flame to brighten and applied it to his pipe be- 
fore replying. 

“ 11 (pwjf) what we were {puff) saying about the bank just {puff) 
now wasn’t talking against it,” said he, “I'm no judge o’ 

plain speakin’, that’s all. 'Look here, Mas’r Killett,” added he, 
pointing the smoking end of the match at the old oracle; “how 
many years have this very bank been in this very town and in the 
hands of the same tamilies? Tell me that, Mas’r Killett, will 'ee?” 

“ Whoy,” said the old man, taking his pipe from his mouth, pull- 
ing down his waistcoat, rubbing his leg and pointing with his. yard 
of clay in approved Marlshire oracle fashion, “ there ain’t ^nod one 
alive as could mind the start of it. I’m the eldest man to Avonham, 
’ceptin’^ p’raps, old Haddy Prosser’s father, and he’m a dotin’ even 
it ’a be as old as what 1 be, and 1 can’t mind it. I’ll tell ’ee what, 
tlio’l Lookee you all here, now, and see what I do say, for it’s 
true it I nevermore move out o’ this here cheer. My granfer* held 
bees money in’t, that ’a did, an’ ’a many yeers afore I were bore 
too, that ’twere. See that, now!” 

“ That’s a very many years ago,” said Wolstenholme Pye, reflect- 
ively. 

“ That goes back years and years,” Hoppener assented. 

““ Ah, you're j-ight there, both of you,” said John Rann, with a 
half sneer, as though to imply that it was an unusual matter ; “ and 
do you mean to tell me — ” 

Rann’s question shared the fate of the belief he was enunciating 
before Shelman’s entry, and was never advanced a stage further than 
its commencement, for the sound of voices, loud in anger outside, 
broke in upon the low-toned conversation and checked it in a minute. 

“ Hear heart alive!” said Mr. Beadlemore Arto, looking round the 
room in amazement, “ why, whatever’s to do?” 

The angry voices grew angrier and louder, and Miss Pinniffer 
who, within her bar, h^ad risen to her feet in evident alarm, gave a 
frightened scream, called out some tew woids in an appealing tone, 
and rang violently at the bell which communicated with the back 
of the hotel. Wolstenholme Pye, who was sitting close to the win- 
dow, got up and looked out with a loud, “ Laws a daisy how!” and 


* Grandfather. 


AS AYOK FLOWS, 


161 


flung the sash up, thrusting out his head, and as much of his body 
as he could with safety get through. Rann dropped his pipe, which 
shivered to pieces on the floor, and Barnabas Chickleholt, who was 
nearest the door, threw it open and rushed out into the passage fol- 
lowed by all in the room, except the Pyes, who fraternally shared 
the window. The sight that met their eyes was enough to rouse all 
Ayonham. 

When Alfred Shelman had taken his ungracious farewell of the 
inmates of the parlor of the Bear, and closed the door behind him, 
the first person who met his view in the passage was our light-hearted 
friend Walter Bryceson, who was just mounting the stone steps, ac- 
companied by Mr. Millard, with whom he was laughing and talking, 
and Fred Markham. ^ 

. The fun went out of Bryceson's face the moment he saw Shelman; 
he had not expected to meet him just tben, but his mind was made 
up with respect to him, and he determined to bring him to book at 
once. Shelman was hot known to Markham by sight, and Mr. 
Millard was, of course, unconscious of anything wrong. 

As Shelman was about to pass out at the front door with an ordi- 
nary greeting to Mr. Millard, whom he had not long ago left, 
Bryceson stepped right in his path, and brought him perforce to a 
standstill. 

“ A word with you, Mr. Shelman, if you please, said he, sternly, 
laying his left hand on Shelman's shoulder, and gripping a hunting 
crop with the other. 

“ On what subject, sir?’’ replied Shelman, haughtily, stepping 
back, and shaking himself free of the other’s hold. 

“ On two, sir,'’ said Bryceson; “ on your plot to wreck my friend 
Galbraith’s house the other night and on your threatened action for 
slander against Mr. Rapsey. ” 

“ And what the devil business is either the house or Rapsey of 
yours?” said Shelman, hotly, and endeavoring to pass out. 

” Just this,” said Bryceson, ” as 1 happened to be in the house 
when your vagabonds attacked it—” 

” My vagabonds!” cried Shelman. “ How dare you speak to me 
in this way, sir?” 

“ 1 mean exactly what 1 say, sir,” said Bryceson, ” and it’ll take 
a better man than you to stop me. ^ AS 1 was just as likely to suffer 
as my friend, that part of the affair is my business, and as I choose 
to interfere between j’^ou and Mr. Rapsey on account of a certain in- 
terest 1 have in the matter, that’s my business too; at any rate, 1 
choose to make it so. Now, sir, just explain your conduct in the 
first matter, will you?” 

Mr. Millard had listened to the opening of this conversation with 
feelings which it would be hard to describe. He now interfered. 

” Mr. Bryceson— Mi. Shelman, for goodness’ sake, what does this 
mean? Gentlemen, I beg of you to be calm.” 

“I’ll tell you what it means,” said Bryceson, answering the ques- 
tion, but by no means acceding to the request. “ You were over at 
our place a little while ago concerning a certain young captive whom 
we took on the uight of tlie election— allow me to introduce you to 
his employer,” and he indicated Shelman, 

6 


16^ AS ATOK FLOWS. 

Do you mean to insult me?’’ sliouted Shelman, beside himself 
with rage. V Let me pass, or— 

“ What will you do? Do you think you are dealing with little 
Eapsey, you bully? Do you know that we’ve your confederate’s 
confession? You scoundrel, 1 believe the whole of the work of that 
riot was your doing ! ” 

“You are a liar!” yelled Shelman; “ stand out of my way.” 

“ 1 won’t!” said Bryceson, as much aroused as the other. 

“ Take that, then,” shrieked Shelman, and dashed his hst at the 
other’s face. 

Short but fierce, was the fray that followed. Both w^ere power- 
fully made young men, in the very prime of manhood, Shelman 
halt mad with rage and Bryceson roused in an unusual degree. But 
the latter was the stronger and more skilltifl, and when the first halt 
dozen hot, wild, uncalculated slogs had passed, Shelman, w^ho, with 
all his faults, had not a particle of pliysical cowardice^ in his com- 
position, found that he was face to face with a man who was his 
superior in every way. Trusting to the moral efllect of a rush, he 
dashed in to drive his enemy before him, but wns twice hit back 
again by Bryceson’s left, and, rushing in a third time with head 
down, hoping to be successful with the goat-like tactics of the late 
Edward Stockman, Esq., a distinguished and refined member Of the 
prize ring, better known to fame as the “ Lively Kid,” he was niet 
with a tearful upper cut and a straight hit from his opponent’s right 
that knocked him down in a huddled-up mass at the bottom of the 
Bear steps. 

The scene that followed was as exciting as any in the annals of 
the town. When the paralysis of surprise was over, a score of per- 
sons, headed by Binniffer and ex-Mayor Killett, threw themselves 
between the combatants and prevented any further contest for the 
present. Bursting through the crowd that had speedily collected 
xame the negro Edward, with a war-gleam in his roiling eyes and a 
display of teeth that was diabolical in the eyes of the terrified youths 
who flocked to the spot. In the midst, of the hubbub, when Mr. 
Millard was endeavorinng to make peace, the spectators all talking 
at the top of their voices, the negro assisting his present master, 
Markham threatening a friend of Shelman’s who had uttered some 
words derogatory to his friend, and the combatants themselves on 
the point of renewing ''the battle in spite of the well-wishers, who 
were respectfully but firmly endeavoring to prevent it, Mr. Sennett, : 
the mayor, came upon the scene. 

“ What is the meaning of this, Millard?” he asked. 

“ God khows!” said the astonished Millard. “ 1 don’t!” 

“ Gentlemen, have you taken leave of your senses?” cried the 
mayor. 

Neither foe replied, but such obviously hostile preparations for ; 
renewing the fray went forward 'that the mayor’s temper was roused ^ 
by the disregard of his authority. . 

“ Mr. Shelman and Mr. Bryceson,” he cried, “ if you do not in- ^ 
stantly cease this disgraceful kruggle and depart quietly, 1 will issue 
my warrant against each of you tor a breach of the queen’s peace, > 
and imprison you both! I call on all present to assist me in the 
queen’s name!” ^ 


AS AYO^ PLO‘\yS< 


163 


The sturdy old fellow meant what he said, and a murmur of re- 
spect went up from the crowd. Bryceson and Shelman scowled at 
each other fiercely, and, if the truth must be told, a little melo- 
dramatically; then Markham, seizing Walter’s arm, pushed through 
the crowd with him and entered the Bear; whilst Shelman, bleeding 
profusely from the face, and already sick and faint from the fearful 
blows he had received, was supported across the market place to- 
ward his home by Killett and one of the bank clerks who had been 
present at the row. 

How many venerable and respectable heads were shaken over the 
news, how many pipes were smoked over it, and from how many 
points the fight was discussed, would be hard to say. Two persons 
in Avonham, beside the principals, each of whom next morning was 
somewhat ashamed of the aftair, were in a sad state of mind over 
the matter. One was Mr. Adolphus Carter, who could see nothing 
but harm to himself ensuing from the occurrence; the other, Mr. 
Timothy Rapsey, who paraded the tovyn like a discontented bee, 
extracting from every possible source the countless descriptions of 
the combat that w^ere flying about the town, and after every fresh 
piece of infoimation exclaiming, with heartfelt and sincere regret. 

‘ ‘ Oh, ‘deary me, deary me, w^hat a misfortune, to be sure I Oh^ 
dear, oh, dear, why ever wasn’t 1 there?” 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE MURMUR OP THE HIVE, 

Xestor in his long and honored life must have met with novelty 
in the minds of men. We may fairly imagine that'he would some- 
times shake his venerable head over the changes that were taking 
place in his latter days. Certain it is that his representative in Avon- 
ham, Master Killett, was compelled to own that he had never known 
such all-absorbing interest shown in the town of which he was the 
Nestor as was displayed over the encounter between Bryceson and 
Shelman. There was no getting a word in on any other subject 
next market day. Every farmer who attended market had to be 
regaled with the news, fifteen different reasons were assigned for 
the quarrel, partisans were not wanting.foi both sides, and the town 
was in a ferment. Those highly favored individuals who had been 
fortunate enough to be actual eye-witnesses of the combat itself 
found their company more eagerly sought after than oii any other 
market-day in their recollection. Generally speaking, they were to 
be found in a group together somewhere in the immediate neigh- 
borhood of the baUle-field, for it was deemed almost indispensable to 
the proper telling of the tale that the listener should have pointed 
out to him -the actual spot on which the meeting took place, the very 
steps down which Shelman had been propelled, the exact square of 
paving Slone on which. Bryceson had stood when he delivered his 
last and most effective blow, and the precise course which the mayor 
had taken when he bore down upon the combatants and prevented 
the affray from going any further. So that the gateway of the Bear, 
always the busiest spot in the town on market-day, was more 


164 AS AVOH FLOWS 

thronged than e'^er, and from early morning till late in the afternoon 
tiie battle was fought again. 

Attached in some mysterious mannei to the history, and floating 
through the air, was a rumor that there had been some suspicion in 
the minds of some of the best men in Avonham as to the iVvonham 
bank. Newton had quite accurately foreseen that the quarrel of 
his irascible young principal with Mr. Kapsey was one which it 
would be well to adjust, and that no good wpuid come of it. When 
the news of the meeting between Bryceson and Bhelman reached his 
ears, the cashier was siipplied with a reason for the conduct of 
Timothy earlier in the day. There was a gleam of comfort for him, 
however, for it gave him the opportunity of explaining the circum- 
stances to other customers who might otherise have been tempted by 
rumor to act in the same manner as our inquisitive little friend had 
done. Toward one or two of the townspeople who had drawn 
heavily, Mr. Newton was rather sharp in his manner when next he 
met them, and he had the satisfaction oh seeing Messrs. Beadlemore 
Arto & Follwell presenting themselves at the bank to pay in again 
to their accounts, and of hearing from Mr. Barnabas Chicklekolt 
that a knowledge of the real facts of the case would have prevented 
the heavy withdrawals that had alarmed Mr. Newton the day before. 

From the fact that the occurrence was one for discussion in the 
bank itself, it may easily be supposed that public opinion was pretty 
well settled as to the merits of the case. Shelman had a minority of 
champions, actuated chiefly by the fact that his opponent was a 
stranger to the town, but on the*whole the verdict of all the inf ormal 
juries in the place was against him. There had been a rush made 
for Timothy Rapsey, at once, by the seekers for information, and to 
a knot of his cronies the little man had imparted all the story. It 
was received with amazement at firsth and then with indignation. Be 
it remembered that the glaziers had hut newly finished the renova- 
tion of the shattered window-frames, that Avonham men — of the 
lower orders, it is true, but still Avonham men for all that —were 
yet in Ridgetown jail, eating the porridge of aflOliction for their share 
of-the riot, and toiling painfully on the hated treadmill and picking 
ruefully at the loathsome oakum, for participation in a tumutt 
which the town almost unanimously decided was brought about by 
the defeated one. It was useless to argue that the commencement 
of the disturbances, which had everywhere earned for Avonham 
such an unenviable reputation, a reputation most bitterly resented 
by Its really peaceable inhabitants, was accidental — the scape-goat had 
been found, and, despite his. exalted position in the place, he had 
many stones flung at him. It would have galled his fiery mind to 
have he^d those who had been accustomed to fawn on him now 
loudest in their denunciations of his infamous conduct, and it was 
well for his peace of mind that the injuries inflicted on him by his 
stalwart conqueror were so severe as to necessitate a strict confine- 
ment to his bed, and even to demand medmal aid. 

.During this period of excitement and universal thirst for news 
and gossip, there was one person in Avonham who was supremely 
uncomfortable. It was fortunate that the principal portion of Mr. 
Adolphus Carter’s work was merely routine, or assuredly the in- 
terests of his employer would have suffered from the abstraction and 


165 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 

preoccupation of his articled pupil, who, ordinarily, could be trusted 
with important affairs, and who had not in the least exaggerated his 
abilities when he had declared that he was not a fool in nis business. 
The worst result of his folly that he had pictured to himself was 
that Shelman would have been compelled to eat a little humble-pie 
with Timothy Rapsey, and be had not counted, as indeed his friend 
had not, on the vigorous and forcible action of W alter Bryceson 
being the first outcome of his confession of his misdeeds and the 
share that Shelman had had in them. From a distance he had wit- 
nessed the discomfiture of his associate, and had not dared to move 
hand or foot in his service; and now seated at his desk he pondered 
ruefully over the probable consequences to himself. He found no 
comfort from hisoieditations; the more he thought the matter over 
the blacker looked the prospect to him. To add to his woes, too, 
every one of the callers at Mr. Bompas’s office seemed to imagine 
that he took the liveliest interest in the affray, and plied him with 
awkward questions and distasteful chatter. Perhaps tUe one slender 
piece of consolation which came to him was the thought that Shel- 
man had met the punishment with wliicfi he had threatened Mm in 
his irritation. He reflected that Shelman had used him for his own 
purposes, and had been excessively indignant at being reminded of 
the fact, even to the verge of violence. But it was scanty consola- 
tion after all, and there was no man in Avon ham that day with 
thoughts more bitter, and prospects more gloomy, than Adolphus 
Carter. 

It took him a long time to make up his mind to visit the defeated 
man, and it was more through fear of incurring his anger than from 
sympathy with him that he at last determined to do so. He quitted 
the office ostensibly for dinner, and made his way down the bustling 
and busy streets, giving the briefest returns to the various greetings 
he received compatible with courtesy. The man who opened the 
door to him, Shelman’s own servant, looked doubtful when he 
asked to see his master. 

“ Master’s very ill, sir,” he said hesitatingly, adding after a pause, 
“ 1 suppose you know, sir?” 

Carter nodded. 

'' I’ll take your name up, Mr. Carter, and see if master will see 
you,” said the man. 

Carter waited the man’s return with some trepidation. In a min- 
ute he came down- stairs and asked Carter to walk up. 

“Is he in bed?” Adolphus asked, as he prepared to mount the 
stairs. 

“ No, sir,” answered the man, “ he’s in his roorfi, sir, but he is 
sitting up. Doctor Mompesson wanted him to remain in bed, but 
master was obstinate and would get up. We’ve had an awful time 
with him, sir,” he added, lowering hi^ voice to a confidential whis- 
per, “ there’s no pleasing him or doing anything right for him. I 
hope you’ve brought no news to upset hira,xSir?” 

This intelligence was the reverse of soothing to Adolphus’s already 
agitated nerves, and he ascended to his friend’s bedroom with a 
hearty inward wish that he had never thought of coming. 

Alfred Shelman was not a pretty sight to look at, certainly. His 
forehead was swollen and discolored, his eyes were almost closed, 


166 


AS AVOH FLOWSo' 

and there was a cut under one of them; Ms nose was as red as a 
beet-root, and his lips thrice their usual thickness; there was a long 
strip of plaster crossed with smaller slips, marking where the back 
ot his head hjd come in contact with the stones; where no marks 
were visible his face was deadly pale, and his trembling hands proved 
that the shock to his system had been severe. No one would have 
doubted the physical courage with which he had faced his opponent 
after seeing the terrible results of the battle on his frame. Adolphus 
was seized with new terrors as he reflected on what might have been 
his lot on the night of the election, and what Fate might yet have in 
store for him. 

“ My dear fellow,'' he said, advancing and holding out his hand 
in token of sympathy, “ I’m awfully sorry to see you like this.” 

. “Are you?” said Shelman, without taking the proffered hand: 

you ought to be. Now perhaps you will fe satisfled, when you 
see the result of all your cursed folly.” 

He spoke with difficulty and indeed with pain, but even then his 
pallid face flushed with rage, and the distortion of his features gave 
him so evil an appearance that Carter felt inclined to flee. 

He stood his ground, however, and commenced his excujpation. 

1 can’t really see,” he began, “how 1 am to blame; I would 
have suffered anything, 1 am sure, to have prevented it.” 

“ 1 wisn you had to suffer this!” said Shelman fiercely, and strik- 
ing his head, though he winced and groaned from the pain the hasty 
action caused him; “ but I’ll be revenged on the pair of you when I 
get about again. If there is any law in the land, that brawling bully 
shall suffer its penalties, and you may look to yourself, Adolphus 
Carter, for 1 will be even with you for your share in the affair, trust 
me!” 

“ 1 declare,” said Adolphus, earnestly, “ upon my most sacred 
word of honor—” 

“ Your S 2 LQXQ& word of honor,” said Shelman, with a sneer, 
“ That will be a precious guarantee for any asseveration you may be 
going to make!” 

‘ ‘ Jly word of honor, ’ ’ said Carter, reddening, “ was as good as any 
man’s in Avonham till you and your uncle upset the town with that 
cursed election, which has brought us both into trouble; and even 
that would not have caused us anylhing but the regret of defeat, if 
you hadn’f acted as you did afterward. It’s very generous of you 
to throw all the blame upon me. 1 have suffered quite as much as 
you have, though in a different way. You’re not just, Shelman.” 

“ It’s your turn to triumph over me now,” said Shelman, vicious- 
ly, “ but you wait for my turn! .Whether I’m just or not. I’ll let 
you know my power in this place, at any rate.” 

“1 have not the least desire to triumph over you, said Carter; 
“ you are very wrong in thinking so; and as for your revenge, your 
sentiments on that head are positively wicked. ” 

“ Are you going to preach me a sermon, you hypocrite!” snarled 
Shelman. 

“ No, 1 am not,” answered Adolphus. “ Perhaps you think that 
you are to be allowed to threaten and bully without meeting any 
retort or defense; do you expect that 1 shall permit you to injure me 
without my retaliating? Don’t you drive to despei:ation a man who 


AS AVOH FLOWSo IG'? 

ha's been already driven hard enough and far enough, and solely 
through carrying out your dirty plans.’’ 

Shelman’s features becanie perfectly fiendish with passion. He 
rose from the arm-chair in which he was sitting, and made a half- 
step toward Carter, who prepared for ah attacE' The effort was, 
however, too much for him, and he sunk back with a groan of pain. 
For a minute or two he passed his hand over his forehead, whilst 
Adolphus stood watching him with a face full of alarm, and, to do 
him justice, of sympathy. 

“You are ill,” he said at last — “ let me get you some brandy or 
something; can you tell me where it is?” 

tShelman’s physical p^.n conquered his rage for a time; he pointed 
to a cupboard, from which Carter took some brandy and gave him 
some, mixed with water. 

“1 won’t agitate 3"ou by any more talk,” said he, when he had 
rendered him this service; “ 1 really did not come here to quarrel 
or to blame you; my only object was to see how you were.” 

“ Well,” said Shelman faintly, but with no abatement of his 
malice, ‘ ‘ now you have seen — and feasted your eyes on my condition 
— you can go.” 

“lam going,” said Carter, taking his hat from the table, but 
before I do go 1 will say one thing—” 

“ Say it quickly and go then,’” said Shelman. 

“ You are very foolish to quarrel with me,” said Carter impress^ 
ively, and turning as he spoke, “ for 1 declare to you that I verily 
believe that 1 am the only friend you have in Avonham at the present 
minute.” 

His hand was on the handle of the door, and he was going, when 
Shelman cried out hoarsely, “ Stop! come here, come back, sit 
down and wait a minute while 1 recover a little.” Adolphus turned 
back and sat down ; Shelman struggled with himself, and drank a 
little more of the brandy and water. 

“ Tell me,” he said, “ what they are saying about this affair in 
the town. 1 suppose the whole place is full of" it?” 

Mr. Carter owned that it had been the chief topic of conversation 
that day. 

“ Curse the cackling fools! what are thfey saying about it?” 

“Ho one seems to know really more than what actually hap- 
pened,” answered Carter. 

“ Of course not, but 1 know Avonham of old,” said Shelman, 
“ and I’ll have my word to say to it, too, as soon as 1 am able to 
leave this confounded room. Ho they know anything of what we 
know?” 

“ They put it down to the election and the attack on the Coombes,” 
answered Carter; and he added, “of course, you know, Timothy 
Rapsey has been talking.’' 

“ Has he said anything against the bank?” said Shelman eagerly, 
“ has he done that?” 

“1 don’t know that he has,” said Carter, “ 1 haven’t been near 
the little brute all day— 1 only know what has passed from conver- 
sations'! have had with people in the ofiice, you know.” 

“ Find out, will you?” said Shelman; “ get to know all that he 
has said, speak to him yourself ; don’t frighten him, but get out of 


168 AS AVON FLOWS. 

him all you can and let me know to-morrow. Hush! here is some 
one coming upstairs. Don’t say a word of this before him, whoever 
he may be!” 

The servant knocked at the door, and deceiving permission to 
enter, announced Dr. Mompesson, who followed immediately on his 
heels. 

The doctor gave a glance of displeasure at the visitor, and shook 
his finger reproachingly at the patient. 

“ This won’t do, She! man, youhnow; 1 must forbid you to see 
any visitors for a day or two. ” 

“ 1 was so confoundedly hipped here all alone, doctor,” said Shel- 
man; taking the excuse out of Carter's mouth, “ that when Carter 
called 1 ordered him to be shown up.” 

” 1 haven’t been here ten minutes, doctor,” said Carter, and ex- 
tending his hand to his unfortunate friend, who, this time, did not 
refuse it, he backed out of the room. Outside the house he waited 
for the coming forth of the doctor, who made his appearance in 
about a quarter of an hour. He was nof driving, so Carter joined 
him, and they walked townward together. 

“ What do you think of him?” he asked. 

“ What do you?” said the doctor dryly. 

“ 1 think he looks very bad,” said Carter. 

He is very bad,” said Dr. Mompesson, “ and your visit hasn’t 
done him any good; 1 have given strict injunctions that no one is to 
be admitted to see him yer, not even his uncle.” 

“ 1 didn’t think 1 was doing any harm by calling,” said Carter, 
penitently; “ of course 1 was naturally anxious to knowhow he was 
getting on.” 

‘‘ Naturally,” answered the doctor, “ but he must be kept in per- 
fect quietness. ” 

”1 suppose,” said Adolphus, hesitatingly, ” he has been — been 
soundly^! mean very severely injured?” 

He has been about as roughly handled as I remember to have 
seen a man served,” answered Dr. Mompesson gravely. “Before 
you were born, Mr. Adolphus, and when I was a younger man, 1 
attended a good many prize-fights; it was more the fashion then, 
and 1 don’t think 1 can remember the case of a. man receiving such 
an amount of punishment in so short a space of time. If jmu have 
any difierenee with Mr. Brycesbn, don’t attempt to settle it that way, 
young fellow, 1 advise you.” 

Adolphus, considering how narrowly he had escaped the same 
treatment, had the sensation quaintly described as that of “ a person 
walking over his grave.” 

“Is he in any danger?” he asked, after walking on silently for 
half a minute. 

“ No immediate danger,” said the doctor, “ so long as he is kept 
perfectly quiet, as 1 told you, and that is why 1 have put the veto on 
any callers. Encephalitis what I’m most afraid of,” he added, 
half to himself and half to Carter, “ but we can avoid that with 
care, 1 think.” 

Adolphus had not the slightest idea of what encephalitis might be, 
and was somewhat alarmed at the idea that his confederate was in 
danger of an ailment with so formidable a name. 


AS AVON FLOWS. 169 

** 1 hope he will soon recover.” he said, and really meant it too. 

“ 1 hope so/' answered the doctor, ‘‘ for his own sake and yours 
too, and for other people’s as weil.” 

And with these parting words, which bore no grain of consolation 
to Adolphus, the doctor bade him good-day and crossed the road to 
call on an old friend who would be treated by no one else, although, 
as we have before said. Dr. Mompesson had practically retired from 
practice. 

Adolphus turned moodily into South Street, blit brightened up as 
he saw Timothy Rapsey on the other side of the way. For a mo- 
ment he forgot Shefman’s advice not to frighten him,, and deter- 
mined that he should share the unpleasant feelings from which he 
himself was sufiering. He crossed the road and accosted the little 
man. 

“ This is a bad business about Shelman,” he commenced, care- 
fully watching Timothy's face. 

” Ah!” said Timothy, looking wise, perhaps it will teach Mr. 
Shelman a lesson, Mr. Carter.” 

” I’m afraid it will teach a good many of us a lesson,” answered 
Carter, lugubriously. ” 1 wouldn’t be in your shoes if he were to 
die, Mr. Rapsey; you set Mr. Bryceson on to him, you know. It’s 
your fault from beginning to end, and I only hope you won’t have 
precious good cause to remember it.” 

” But,” stammered Timothy, neglecting the charge implied in this 
speech, ” Mr. Shelman isn’t in any danger^ is he?” 

” Isn't he?” said Carter, nodding his head in the emphatic man- 
ner which generally accompanies this question when put sarcastic- 
ally. 

” No, but is he?” said Timothy, much alarmed, he scarcely knew 
at what; ” you talked about his dying, you know, Mr. Carter— he’s 
not going to die, you know.” 

” Isn't he?” said Adolphus, nodding again in the same manner. 

“ 1 don’t know anything about it; all 1 know is that he’s got some- 
thing 1 can’t pronounce, and that Dr. Mompesson is very doubtful 
how the case will end, and 1 wish you joy of your interference, Mr. 
Rapsey!” 

So saying, Adolphus Carter flung himself into his ofiSce, leaving 
Timothy much disturbed, to wend his way toward the market place, 
shaking his head very solemnly over the mysterious disease that Mr. 
Carter could not pronounce,, and wondering how long it took to kill 
a patient suffering from it. Mr. Rapsey was so ill at ease that he 
did not, as usual, join the busy throng in the streets, but retired to 
his own quarters, where he passed the afternoon reading a lar^ce 
Illustrated edition of the ” Death of Abel.” He met Edward in the 
evening, and confided to him what he had heard of Shelman’s con- 
dition. / ' 

” It des sarves Mas’r Shelman right,” said the negro. “In de 
fus’ place darwarn’tde leas’ ’sense for ’um int’ferin’ wid our haouse 
or de people in it. An’, in de secon’ place, Mas’r Rapsey, a fell^ 
*at’s got a head like a bun ain’t got no bizness goin’ fightin’/’ 


170 


AS AYOiq- Flows. 


CHAPTER XXL " 

FLOWING SMOOTHLY. 

VsRY demure looked the young ladies of the Bompas family on 
their return to Avonham, a week alter the events last narrated.- The 
only outward signs of their London visit were some sweet novelties 
in Regent Street dresses and Bond Street bonnets, which completely 
nullified any of the preaching of the good old vicar, on the first Sun- 
day after their arrival, so far as the female portion of^his congrega- 
tion was concerned, and caused many Avonham young ladies to 
give way to many outbursts of semi-hysterical satire, and many 
matrons to (hypocritically) thank Heaven that their daughters were 
not as other meu’s were. The young ladies themselves were soon 
the object of feminine congratulations couched in various shades of 
envy, hatred, and malice, but to them, who could, as we have ob- 
served, take their own part in this phase of feminine warfare re- 
markably well, these gave but little concern. Thej^ were perfectly 
prepared for them, whereas the resident maidens had not counted 
on the bonnets. 

Those who hastened to pour into the ear of the worthy father of 
our fair friends the thrilling history of the latest battle, of Avonham 
were a little disappointed at finding their news was stale to him. 
They were met on the threshold of their story by the information 
that the whole facts of the case were well known to him. Never 
suspecting the source from which he had obtained his knowledge — 
for, like most inquisitive people, they were unable to perceive the 
facts that lay under their very noses— they imagined that Mr. 
Bompas had been made acquainted with all that had passed in 
Avonham during his absence from correspondence with his friends 
and his office. They were also disappomted at getting no opinion 
from him upon the subject, which promised to outrun the proverbial 
nine days, and to remain a topic of conversation and wonder for all 
time, beyond the broad statement that it was a pity for young men 
to quarrel, and that a personal encounter was at all times a matter 
tor regret and a thing to be deplored by the friends of both parties. 

Mr. Bompas oracularly delivered this opinion at the first meeting 
of the club which he attended after his return from London, and 
^his ideas being warmly supported by Mr. Sennett, and by peace- 
loving Reuben Matley, who possessed that influence which a uni- 
formly quiet man of parts always has in a country town, the matter, 
after a good deal of cogitation on the part of those who had made it 
the leading topic for a week, became unpopular and began to lose 
interest in Avonham. 

During the period of Mr. Bompas’s stay in London, the town had 
been deprived of the presence of three more of its shining lights. 
Mi:s. Stanhope had also been absent, and, since the election. Sir 
Headingly Cann had been seeking relaxation from his labors. Mr. 
Boldham, his late rival in the good graces of the constituency, had 
likewise withdrawn the light oE his countenance for awhile, and 
therefore the interest of the town was considerably whetted when, 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


in 

within a few days of each other, all these notabilities returned to 
Avonham. Old inhabitants began to think that life in Marlshire 
was exciting for aged nerves, and the middle-aged and young natives 
would have, at this time, repudiated with scorn any insinuation that 
the place could, with any fairness, be described as dull. 

None of the three, however, had returned to gratify the town, for 
each of them had private affars to study. 

Mrs. Stanhope wished to set her house in order before her second, 
or her third marriage. She was going also to give another of her recep- 
tions to the county magnates, and wished her last independent fixt- 
ure to be a success. It had been agreed between the various parties 
interested in the forthcoming marriage, that no announcement of it 
should be permitted to tickle the ears of the Avonham folk just yet. 
There was no intention of concealing the ceremony when it did tal?:e 
place; on the contrary, it was determined that all Avonham should 
be gay that day, and that the affair should be as brilliant as possible. 

Sir fieadingly Cann had returned for the purpose of overhauling 
and tautening such portions of the political rigging of the good ship 
Britannia as were intrusted to his care. He had to meet his con- 
stituents, to congratulate them on the fact that the country, which 
had been in such deadly peril whilst the opposite party had been the 
Ins, was now saved by the fact that the opposite party were now 
the Outs. He also felt that, after the late contest, it behooved him to 
keep a careful watch over the town, so as to be able to hand over 
the political succession to his nephew, when the time came, unfet- 
tered by the unpleasant conditions of a hard-fought election. 

Mr. Boldham came back to see how much mischief his nephew 
had done in his absence, and to endeavor to patch up matters as best 
he could. His was the least congenial task of the three, and by far 
the most diflScult, for, setting aside the temporary scare about the 
bank, at which he could afford to laugh, the mismanagement of 
Shelman occurring just at the time when he was making nis bow to 
the world as a politician ivas vastly annoying to the ambitious man 
whom it injured most- of all. 

Walter Rivers accompanied Sir Headingly, and was on the most 
excellent terms with himself and the whole world. His suit was 
prosperous, as it could not fail to be if there were any sense of 
gratitude in woman^ for the young fellow left no stone unturned to 
please and gratify the mistress of his heart. Anything like youthful 
sentiment would have been thrown away on a woman of the strength 
of mind and force of character of Mrs. Stanhope, and Rivers was 
not so shallow or so short-sighted as to attempt it. But there are 
other forms of adoration, more suitable for the woman who con- 
fesses to having passed thirty-five, and confesses it calmly and 
without ^making any bones about it; and Walter Rivers was quite 
man of the world enough to know them. So it followed that the 
course of this particular true love commenced smoothly and fairly 
enough,' however it might be destined to end. 

Alfred Shelman, to Timothy Rapsey’s great relief, did not die of 
the unpronounceable disejise, and a few days after his uncle’s ar- 
rival was again about in the town. W hat had passed between him 
and Mr. Boldham no one knew, but it was surmised that it was not 
a pleasant meeting for either of them. Those who knew anything 



172 AS AVOK FLOWS, 

of the affairs of the bank were aware that it was impossible that 
Shelman’s position cotild be assailed by his uncle, that he held too 
much inhuenceand had too much capital in the concern to be treated 
even as an ordinary partner, and it was whispered among a chosen 
and select few that at the interview the younger man had more thnn 
held his own against the elder. 

The inhabitants ot the Coombes went on much as usual. It 
Was a matter of great wonderment to some of the townspeople as to 
who was the real owner of the house, for Bryceson seemed as much 
at home in it as Galbraith had been, and Fred Markham speedily 
occupied in the place the position previously filled by Bryceson. 
There appeared to be a good deal of cordial intei course between the 
two young men and Mr. Bompas’s family, and Mr. Millard seemed 
to be on excellent tefms at the house, which had been exalted into a 
veritable Aladdin’s palace of wonders by the graphic descriptions 
given of the interior Dy Mr. Rapsey. 

A fragmentary conversation which took place a few days after 
Mrs. Stanhope’s return would perhaps have caused as much wonder 
if it had been heard, as the display of a roc’s egg on the roof of the 
Coombes would have done. It was a fine morning, and Bryce- 
son and Markham mounted their horses for a visit to Beytesbury, 
where old Millard had offered them some shooting. Crossing the 
market-place slowly, they came upon the carriage of Mrs. Stanhope 
standing, as on another occasion which we have noticed, at the door 
of Mr. PoUimoy’s shop. Mrs. Stanhope had left the carriage and 
went in the shop, waited on as before by Traveler Pollimoy. Mr. 
Fred Markham dismounted and entered. 

‘‘ 1 want a pocket-book, if you please,” said he to Miss Ruth Polli- 
moy. 

Miss Pollimoy went to the back of tho'shop to get the desired arti- 
cle. Fred stood with his back to the counter for the two minutes 
which she occupied in her search, and looked round the shop; Mrs. 
Stanhope, seated sideways at the opposite counter, looked across at 
him and noticed two things— one that he was an uncommonly Land- 
some young man, the other that he was glancing at her in a manner 
which she construed to be one ot admiration. She was not dis- 
pleased, she was accustomed to beins; admired; there was nothing 
bold in the glance either, and the man was evidently a gentleman. 

There was very little difficulty about the selection of the pocket- 
book; Markham handled two or three, chose one, paid for it, left the 
shop, and mounted his horse. 

” Who is that?” asked the Queen of Avonham, as he rode away. 

“ 1 don’t know the gentleman’s name, madam,” said Mr. Polli- 
moy, “ but he is staying with Mr. Bryceson, the gentleman on the 
other horse, madam, at Mr. Galbraith’s house, the one that he pur- 
chased of you, madam. ” 

” Indeed,” said Mrs. Stanhope, carelessly. 

“ Yes, madam,” said Pollimoy, ” he has not been here long, in- 
deed he only arrived on the day ” — here he gave a little cough — “ of 
the — the unfortunate encounter between Mr. Shelman and Mr. Bryce- 
son— of which 1 dare say, madam, you have heard.” 

“ 1 have heard of it,” ‘said Mrs. Stanhope. 


AS AVON FLOWS. ITS 

“A veiy deplorable circumstance,” ventured Mr. Pollimoy, 
quoting Mr. Bomp^ at the club. 

” In one way, cemiinly,” said Mrs. Stanhope, rising and unclasp- 
ing her purse to pay the bill, which Mr. Pollimoy had deferentially 
laid befoie her, “ but as Mr. Shelnian never loses an opportunity of 
making himself excessively disagreeable and obnoxious to every one 
around him, it is perhaps a very good thing that he has found some 
one in Avonham with spirit enough to refuse to submit to his arro- 
gance, and ability to give him a punishment which he has thorough- 
ly deserved for a long time past. I am only sorry it was not done 
before, and sincerely glad that it has beeit done now.” 

Mr. Pollimoy ’s astonishment fairly overcame his obsequiousness; 
he returned Mrs. Stanhope her change with a wild stare, and with- 
out a word of thanks, and completely forgot to execute his little 
run round his counter to the door, and thence to the carriage, as 
his patron went away. For the first time Mrs. Stanhope left the 
stationer's shop unattended, and she left the proprietor staring at his 
daughter in a feeble and foolish manner, and with thoughts almost 
too deep tor expression in words. 

Indeed, it was not until the carriage had rolled away that he spoke. 

‘‘ Ruth, my dear,” he said, solemnly, ” did you hear what Mrs. 
Stanhope said?” 

“Yes, papa.” 

” Did you ever hear anything more astonishing in your life, Ruth?” 

” Well, yes, papa, 1 have. 1 was not so much astonished at it as 
you seem to be. ” 

‘‘ You are not so much astonished as 1 seem to be,” repeated Mr. 
Pollimoy slowly; ” and pray why are you not so much astonished 
as 1 seem to be? as 1 am, indeed?” 

” Perhaps,” said Ruth Pollimoy, laughing — she was a merry girl, 
with more than the average Avonham sense'of humor—” perhaps I 
cohld ansW'Cr your question better if you told me wliat there is in 
Mrs. Stanhope’s last speech that causes you so much astonishment.” 

” My dear,” said Mr. Pollimoy, ” I don’t know what you have 
thought of it, but it has been my idea, and the idea, too, of a great 
many people who have more reason to know than 1 have, that if 
there was a likel.y match in Avonham, it was Mrs. Stanhope and 
Mr. Alfred Shelman. Do you wonder at my feeling astonished?” 

“Not under those circumstances, papa,” answered Miss Riith, 
” but you were completely wrong about Mis. Stanhope and Mr. 
Shelman. 1 never thought that would come to anything.” 

” Didn’t you, my dear?” 

” Oh dear no,” said Ruth, laughing and shaking her pretty Curls, 
” and I’m very glad tor Mrs. Stanhope’s sake that it isn’t so, for my 
opinion of Mr. Shelman is precisely the same as hers is.” 

” Well, my dear, perhaps you are right. It is not, my place to 
say anything again«t Mr. Shelman, but 1 must say he has an un- 
popular manner with him. Nevertheless 1 must remark, with re- 
spect to Mrs. Stanhope’s words about him, that 1 have never been 
more astonished in all my life. No,” he added refiectively, out of 
the depths of his vast experience of the world, ” not in the course of 
all my travels have-1 been more surprised.” 

Perhaps Mrs. Stanhope had calculated on leaving some such 


1 ' 5'4 AS AVOK FLOWS. 

astonishment behind her, and had reckoned on the fact that her 
opinion of the man whose name had once been coupled with hers, 
and whom she had so decisively rejected, would, in gossiping Avon- 
ham, be brought to his ears, for the leader of Avonham society was 
not in the habit of taking her tradesmen into her confidence. 

When Bryceson had emerged from the shop, and had mounted, 
the friends rode on together until they were clear of the town, and 
out of hearing of any one. Then Bryceson, checking his horse, said— 

“Well?” 

“Well, 1 never had the sligntest doubt of the matter in my own 
mind, after Harry described to me the way he had followed on her 
track, but it’s some satisfaction to have seen her for myself,” said 
Markham. 

“ There is no doubt at all, 1 suppose?” asked Bryceson earnestly, 
and with erhphasis. 

“ There is not the shadow of a doubt,” answered Markham, “ 1 
will swear it is the same worhan.” 

“ Has she altered much?” 

- “ Less than you would fancy; she is statelier and quieter, and on 
the Avhole has improved vastly in her appearance. Tom Reynolds 
knew her a good deal better than any of Reginald’s friends, for Tom 
was always round at Reggie’s house. Of course you and Harry 
were at college then; Tom used often to tell me that she would 
never rest easy unless she had every man in the room dancing at- 
tendance and making open love to her. It used to drive Reginald 
mad, poor fellow 1 and 1 expect there were words about it when they 
were alone, and that led to the, other affair. I don’t know whether 
she meant any harm at first, but 1 suppose it’s confoundedly hard 
for a woman like that to pull up when once she commences to take 
the down-hill road.” 

“ How do you account,” said Bryceson, when they had ridden a 
little further, “for a wild bird-like that settling down comfortably 
and contentedly in this sleepy old hencoop of a town?” 

“ Women are strange animals,” was the only solution to the prob- 
lem that Fred Markham could find. 

“ 1 shall be glad to see Harry back,” said Bryceson, “ for if any- 
thing should take place in his absence that made it necessary for 
matters to be brought to a head, T should find myself in the unpleas- 
ant position of setting the town on fire tor the second time.” 

“Yes, Avonham will have something to talk about if there is any 
exposure; you’ll make an heroic figure jumpins: up in church and 
forbidding* the banns, if Harry’s surmise is correct and the dear 
creature thinks of venturing her nCck in the matrimonial noose for 
the third time. Well, I’ll stand by you, old boy, and, mind you, 
we hold a very strong hand in the game. ’1 

“ And that, and the knowledge that I’m serving Harry and Regi- 
nald, are my only consolations, 1 assure you.” 

With that the conversation dropped, and the two friends were 
soon busily engaged discussing the capital lunch which Mrs. Millard 
set before the jmung men, prior to their making havoc among her 
husband’s partridges. 

Mr. Pollimoy was not chary of imparting the news of Mrs. Stan- ~ 
hope’s comments on the late affray to his cronies; and her opinion 


AS AVON FLOWS^» 


175 


was not long in reacliing Mr. Alfred Slielman’s ears. The lines of 
this j^onng man were not, just now, cast in pleasant places. Balked 
ot obtaining the widow’s hand, made the object of .her open satire 
and scorn, thrashed like a dogjn the open market-place, terrified by 
the probability of being nlade an accessory to the riot in a court ot 
justice, and conscious that, without possessing the power of retalia- 
tion, he was the theme of all the idle chatter of the town, it is cer- 
tain that for w^homsoever the current of life was flowing smoothly, 
it was the reverse of placid for him. 

To Walter Rivers, on the other hand, everything seemed to be 
going well for him. A handsome and wealthy bride, a parliament- 
ary career, which-he felt would be an honorable one, riches and in- 
fluence, and possibly a title, were all at his feet. He regarded both 
his past and his future with complacency, regretting littlb in the for- 
mer, fearing nothing in the latter; and yet both he and his aflfianced 
wife, whilst dreaming that they were simply floating down a limpid 
stream, that led with easy gliding to happiness and fame, were be- 
ing imperceptibly swept along on a treacherous river that had hid- 
den rocks and deadly depths, and led from peaceful scenes and 
tranquil places to the roaring and destroying ocean, very much as 
Avon flows. 


CHAPTER XXll. 

UNDER THE KINDLY MOON. 

The storm had blown itself out. There were no long scudding 
clouds driving across the disk ot the peaceful moon, and hiding her 
cheery, inquisitive, mischief-seeing face. She had come up in all 
her glory and thrown a shining streak across the broad bosom of 
the Jong-waved Atlantic, like a baldric of gold on the breast-plate of 
Thor; the night was beautiful with stars, and the wind was singing 
softly its wondrous song*of the sea. 

The good ship “ Scotia ” plowed her swift way over the waves 
with flogging paddles and straining sails. Her course for an hour 
had led her right along the golden moon-track, and, lured by the 
tales of the soft beauty ot the night, he^ passengers, storm-rolled and 
wind-whipped for three days, were leaving cabin, saloon, and berth, 
to bask in the glorious light that brightened ail the deck, save where 
it threw dark shadow of mast, or spar, or sail. In couples, in knots, 
and in rings, they grouped themselves, and some with song or merry 
tale, and some with graver talk, passed the hour before turning in. 

Among the quieter passengers, -who talked unheedful of the gayety 
and melody ot the larger groups, were two with whom we have 
especially to deal. 

They sat on deck-chairs at a part of the vessel not favored by the 
more jovial companies, Galbraith smoking, and both for a long time 
silent. Yet they were not sad. In the heart of one of them was 
bounding a wild joy and sense of gratified desire and fulfilled hope 
that made it surely one of the lightest in the ship, and the other was 
happy in recovered freedom, in regained manhood, in emancipated 
mind and unrestrained limbs. But silence is the luxury of joy, and 
their very happiness kept them mute. 


176 AS AVON FLOWS, 

Harry Galbraith was bearing back to England, to light, to life, the 
brother whom he had mourned as dead. 

Reginald Wilding was leaving behind him the hoiTid gloom of 
insanity, the lonely room, the unsympathetic faces of his attendants, 
the despair of his lucid moments, the nameless horrors of a brain 
uncurbed by reason; leaving them behind him as we leave behind 
us, a bad dream, at the very unreality of which we shudder when 
we wake. Every turn of the mighty engines bore one further away 
Irom all that was most dreadful in his life, and carried the other 
nearer and nearer to love, to friends, to home. 

Reginald Welding was the first to break the silence. 

“ 1 think 1 have found my sea legs^at last, Harry,” he said; I' 
shall get used to it, and be as good a sailor as ever; will you give 
me one of your cigars? 1 can venture on one safely now.” 

Galbraith handed him his case, and the half-brothers sat smoking 
and tajking, 

“ What a glorious night!” said Reginald Wilding, and added in 
a lower tone, ” and how sweet it is to be free. 1 never thought 1 
' should see the Atlantic again. 1 have been buried for twelve years,” 

“Forget them,” said Galbraith, laying his hand on that ot his 
brother; “ there is a new life opening out to you now, Reggie; you 
must think no more ot the old one; please God, that will never re- 
turn, the old squire says. ” 

“ Tell me about Adelaide,” said Reginald; “ y6u see, 1 am using 
her Christian name already.” 

Galbraith laughed. 

“ 1 haven’t -much knack of description, old fellow,” he, said, “ it 
will not'4)e so very long before you see her for yourself. She is tall 
and fair, and has deep earnest blue eyes and a sweet face that 1 know 
you will like. She and her sisters are very much alike. 1 little 
thought, when 1 went down to the quiet little town 1 am living in, 
that 1 was going there to fall in love and find a wife^in it.” 

“ Tell me about her,'" said Reginald, alter*a pause. 

“Can you bear to hear much about her, dear old fellow?” an- 
swered Galbraith. “ 1 should never forgive myself if 1 excited you 
again. And I doubt whether 1 can bring myself to speak very calm- 
iy of her. AVhen I think wh^t her crime led to, and the long years 
that we have both suffered, and- the way in w^hich twelve years of 
your life have been, as it were, blotted out, do you wonder at it?” 

“ No; but ] can hear about her quite calmly,” said Reginald, 
quietly. “ Evei since 1 came to myself and knew the old squire 
again, and beard from him of you, and woke more and more every 
day to my new life, 1 have been preparing myself to hear of her. 
At first 1 thought she might be dead, and 1 reasoned with myself 
whether that would be well for me or ill; then 1 pictured her as liv- 
ing somewhere where I should never hear of her or see her; at othet 
times 1 fancied that we might meet by chance, aud then I scarcely 
dared to think of what might happen. When 1 had shaped all these 
things out in my mind in filty different ways, 1 asked the old squire 
about her just before he started for Europe. He told me that he 
should see you there; told me that you considered me dead, and put 
new life in me by telling me that he should tell you of me, and that 
in due time you would come to me. 1 suppose that 1 was not quite 


AS AVOH FLOWS. 


177 


right in his eyes just then. It needed the great joy ol hearing of 
you and looking forward to seeing you to complete my cure. He 
said nothing of her. It was from you, dear old fellow, that 1 heard 
of the woman who wrecked my happiness and spoiled my life. How 
did you trace her to the quiet English town which you have described 
to me?’' 

“Ah, Eeggie,'' said Galbraith, “that's along story; it took me 
some years on and oft and here and there. 1 got the" first clew by 
accident years and years after I believed you de^d. Bit by bit and 
time after time 1 got scraps of information, but it was not until 1 
had left America, and after father’s death, that 1 could settle down 
to anything like sj^stematic and determined investigation. Then 1 
went backward over the whole ground. The scraps 1 had heard 
before all related to her life in the States; and when 1 had followed 
up that trail — with immense difficulty, of course, owing to the lapse 
of years and the space 1 had to cover — it suddenly branched off at a 
tangent and landed her in England." 

The speaker paused and smoked in silence for a minute. 

“ When 1 again struck the trail," he went on, “1 found to my 
great astonishment the evidences, not only of a change of scene, 
which was puzzling enough, but of a sudden and complete alteration 
of her mode of life. As you knew the worst of her years ago, and 
before your illness, my poor fellow, you may guess, of course, that 
her life had been, tor years after your supposed death fiom that 
duel, what it would be charitable to characterize as a Bohemian one. 
1 am really using a mild conventional word to describe the checkered 
existence she led for some three or four years after that event. ’ ’ 

“ Ay, ay, my dear brother, 1 can thoroughly understand what 
you imply by the word." 

“ From the moment of her landing in the old country," Galbraith 
went on, “ there was a complete change of front in the woman. She 
had thrown oft the scoundrel with whom she went away." 

“ What became of that hound?" said Reginald, in a low voice. 
“ 1 should like to know." 

“ It was his name that gave me the first clew," said Galbraith. 

“ Have you ever met him?" said Reginald, leaning forward and 
laying his hand on his brother’s arm. 

“L have";" said Galbraith. “It was at Chagres, where Ralph 
Herring a^ I were knocking about one time. He was down with 
Chagres fever at an hotel there, and the landlord, little thinking how 
much 1 was interested in the matter, told us his stor}^ She had left 
him suddenly, much as— " he stopped. * 

“ As she did me, you would say, Harry," said Reginald Wilding, 
quietly; “ go on, my dear old boy — 1 have told you that 1 can hear 
quite calmly anything you have to tell me about her. Say every- 
thing that has to be said; 1 assure you you will not excite or injure 
me." 

“ Well, she left him, as she had left you," said Galbraith; “ and 
the disappointment, and an attempt to swamp it out with some fine 
new Santa Cruz rum, had laid him on his back with Chagres fever, 
as 1 said." 

“ Did he recover?'^ 

“ Of the fever?’/ » 


178 


AS ATOK FLOWS. 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, yes, he got well of the/^w,” said Galbraith, knocking the 
ash off the end of his cigaio 

“ Was anything else ailiog him then?” asked Eeginald. 

“Yes, my dear fellow,” said Galbraith, a little sternly, and with 
the clinching oi the right hand which was the usual sign of his' be- 
ing under any strong feeling, “ there was. 1 waited until he was 
quite well, got his tale out of him to confirm what the hotel-keeper 
had tol(?me, and when I was thoroughly certain of my man, 1 told 
him one fine morning who and what 1 was.” 

“ There was a fight, of course,” said Reginald. 

“ There was a fight, of course,” echoed his brother, “ and it was 
a perfectly square one. 1 left him at Chagres as 1 thought he had 
left you three years before at Baton Roage— and he’s there now.” 

Again there was a period of silent smoking. 

“ The history of that event has led us into a little digression from 
the main subject,” said Galbraith, after awhile. “1 was saying 
that from the time she landed in England a complete change came 
over heriife,’* 

“How?” 

“ From a type of the United States female Bohemian she became 
almost at once, so far as 1 can trace, an embodiment of all tne British 
female virtues. 1 have schemed in twenty different ways to get at 
Ihe people with whom she took up on her arrival in England. After 
a great deal of trouble* I succeeded. It was difficult, of course, to 
get the subject dragged into conversation without betraying the 
deep-interest 1 had in the matter, but 1 managed it somehow. She 
began to put her shoulder -to the wheel and earn her living quietly 
and respectably as soon as she touched English soil. She was a 
governess and companion in a very good family, when she attracted 
the notice of a wealthy merchant, who was a native of the town 
where 1 am now living, and he married her.” 

“ That man was Stanhope, 1 suppose?” said Reginald Wilding, 
“.Under what name did she marry?” 

“ Under her proper name, Laura Constance Wilding] under yom 
name, that is. ” 

“ That does not look as though Walter Bryceson’s theory- of her 
having obtained a divorce were correct.” 

“ Ho, it does not.” - # 

“ A marriage under a wrong name would be invalid in England, 
would it not?” 

“ Undoubtedly, but this was not her wrong name. She never 
married the vagabond with whomT she ran away, and, divorced or 
not divorced. Wilding was her proper name. So tar she is on the 
right side.” 

“ And she lives now at this quiet little town, Avonham, where 
you yourself are?” asked Reginald. 

“ Yes; her husband was a native of the town, which is a pretty 
little place enough,, with just enough fun going on at election time 
to make existence endurable to a forty-niner.” 

“ And living, you say, as becomes her?” 

“ Living in all good report ana conversation. Her husband died 
some four years ago,- and she has, as yet, made ii£) change in her 


AS ATOK FLOWSo 


179 

position. She is the leader of what is called fashion in those parts, 
and entertains bishops. She is vastly rich, and 1 bought the house 
1 live in fiom her. 1 have an idea in my head that there is an un- 
derstanding between her and a young fellow who lives there, and who 
is the nephew of the member of parliament for the town, and, if 
report speaks truly, likely to succeed him in his seat. 1 say that 1 
have an idea of this, and it is an idea only, for 1 have no facts to 
go upon, but 1 have left behind me instructions that will put an 
elfectual stop to that project if my notion should prove correct. 
That then is the way in which the whole matter stands at pftsent, 
failing one thing.” 

“ And that is?” 

“ Thai we do not know, and 1 have, as yet, been entirely dnable 
to discover whether she, after leaving you, obtained a divorce from 
you or not.” 

“ Have we any means of ascertaining that?” asked Eeginald, 

“ 1 propose to find it out from herself and her own lips. That is 
to say, 1 shall, oi rather— forgive me, old fellow — we will together 
throw the onus of proof on her, and it she claims to have obtained a 
divorce we will make her prove her statement by documentary evi- 
dence froril the court. ” 

“And suppose,” said Reginald Wilding, ‘‘that she has never 
been divorced in the States 

“Then,” said Galbraith, slowly and deliberately, “in that case 
she is your wife still, and her future is in your hands.” 

Reginald rose from his seat and stood leaning against the bul- 
wark, and watching the flashing sea; after awhile he said— 

“ Thank you, my dear Harry, for telling me all that you have to- 
night. It is very likely, now that 1 know all, that 1 stall not ask 
you any more about it, and 1 must think over what 1 have heard. 
It won’t upset me, brother,*’ he added, with a smile, “ and it has 
done me good to have heard all to-night.” 

“ Let us go into the saloon then, if you have finished your cigar,” 
said Harry. And they left the deck. 

The passengers, the ladies especially, took a great interest in the 
close association of these two young men. They were not aware of 
the relationship existing between them, and considered them merely 
as friends. It was very touching, said the sentimental young ladles, 
to see how the younger of the two looked after the elder, who was 
only just recovering from a long and painful illness. And their 
interest was vastly increased by the tact that the self -elected com- 
mittee of management, which on every oceafi-going ship regulates 
the morals and the relaxations of the passengers had voted that the 
restored invalid was a “ d’cid’ly hahnsiim mahn,” and that the 
younger was “ a ’cute hand at the ship’s games, and not a bad- 
lookin’ fellah.” 

Reginald Wilding was taller and darker than his half-brother, 
and his pale, classical, and delicately-cut face contrasted with the 
bronzed countenance and the firm-set features of the other. In the 
lineaments of the elder there was the beauty of form which is pleas- 
ing to the eye, but a judge of character would have had no hesita- 
tion in choosing which of the two would better bear the bullets of 
the world. 


180 AS AVON FLOWS, 

So the “ Scotia plowed merrily and steadily across the deep, 
bearing her load ot hopes and tears and sorrows and joys, and in 
quiet Marlshire the leader of Avonham’s great ones smiled, and 
talked and walked among them like a queen, never dreaming that 
far away a miglity vessel was beating the waves, and mocking the 
winds, and bringing Nemesis nearer and nearer to her with every 
revolution of ter paddle-wheels. 

For the patient, unwearying seach of the injured brother had 
hunted her down. She had sat unsuspectingly in Mr. Pollimoy's 
sho^ while the keen gaze ot the stranger had rent the veil from her 
secret, and before long the grace of her presence, the lavish hos- 
pitality of her house, the devotion ot her admirers, and the gratitude 
for her bounty, would all be unavailing in shielding from the eyes 
of the world the faithless wife, the degraded womaiL 


CHAPTER XXm, 

THE HAHVESTIHG OF THE WHIRLWIND. 

Before the “ Scotia had put out from port freighted with so 
many important matters, a well-known face had disappeared from 
its accustomed place in Avonham. 

"When Mr. Adolphus Carter had left the room after his memor- 
able interview with Bryceson and Markham, the former had re- 
marked that he would come an awtul cropper over the business. 
The picturesquely worded prophecy had come true not very long 
after Mr. Bompas's return from his visit to London. 

"When that worthy man on the night of the riot had pleaded with 
Galbraith on behalf of his captive, it was well understood that re- 
gard for the father ot the culprit had inspired his request lor the 
forbearance of those who had him in their power. When the Rev 
erend Mr. Carter had drivep over with Mr. Millard and had inter- 
viewed Galbraith on behalf of his graceless son, the freedom with 
which the latter had forgiven the oifense committed against him 
4iad prevented Mr. Eompas from taking any action with respect to 
his clerk beyond the bestowal on him of a carefully studied and 
elegantly rounded oration of the Georgian Era order, couched in 
the most swelling of periods and pregnant with ponderous advice. 
Having done this, and being convinced that the young man’s es- 
capade was not a matter of public notoriety, and being, moreover, 
willing to give him a chance of recuperating his loss of character, 
Mr. Bompas had allowed him to retain his position in his ofl9ce, and 
had departed for London, trusting that the whole matter would only 
be remembered, as time went on, by Mr. Adolphus Carter himself, 
and that no one who was not actually in the secret of the night 
attack and the capture would be allowed to become acquainted with 
any of its details.. 

In the settlement of this question so generous had been the con- 
duct of Galbraith, moved by Mr. Bompas’s eloquent appeal and 
touched by the evident distress shown by the father, who came over 
to intercede for his son, that his frank and free forgiveness, de 
livered in the brusque but not unkindly manner which was the 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


181 


peculiarity of his address to stranp^ers, prevented any very searcliiijg 
inquiries being put to the rioter as to the influences which had been 
at work to induce him to act in so outrageous a manner, and he es* 
caped being cross-examined to any great extent from the fact that 
when Galbraith made an end of the matter by pardoning him, the 
two old friends who were concerned in bringing that result about 
had refrained from seeking for motives, and had been more indus- 
trious in endeavoring to discover excuses tor his conduct 

Mr. Bompas urged that probably the “ most unfortunate occur- 
rence,” in which terms he never ceased to describe the election, and 
the concomitant surroundings, had exercised a deleteiious influence 
on a youth, hitherto faultless in moral conduct, and estimable in 
the discharge of the ordinary duties of his avocation in life. 

Mr. Millard said that he must have been drunk. 

So Adolphus Carter, as vre have already seen, escaped for that 
time. 

But the latter afiair was more serious. 

In placing his trust on Shelman, and in relying upon his influence 
to screen him from the terrifying threats of Timothy Rapsey, 
Adolphus had leaned upon a rotten reed. Ko man in Avonham 
was less likely to protect a man at his own expense than Alfred 
Shelman. When Carter had brought him the news of Rapsey ’s 
vague threats, he had entered upon the matter of aggression with a 
sole view to the screening of his own name and the protection of his 
own interests. When the joint scheme of attack had failed, and 
Carter’s ungenerous ally found that a vigorous war was being car- 
ried on against his own territory, he was the first to turn savagely 
on his humbler and weaker associate, and to visit on him his own 
sins and their punishment. 

The first time that Mr. Bompas and Shelman met, the natural 
delicacy of the poinpous old gentleman precluded his touching upon 
a subject which, he was aware, would necessarily give pain to the 
ether. 

But Shelman was not so reticent. In a violent manner and with 
many expletives he assailed Adolphus Carter, attributing the whole 
occurrence directly to his jealousy and wounded dignity. After 
turning the tables on his quondam ally, he proceeded to abuse 
Bij^ceson in no measured terms. At this Mr. Bompas, who was as 
free from double-dealing as the other was accomplished at it, inter- 
fered, 

‘‘ Mr. Shelman,” he said, 1 can listen to no language derogatory 
of a gentleman who is frequently my guest, who is frequently my 
host, whom 1 am glad to welcome into my house, and whose house 
1 am glad to visit. If there be any — ah— irritation remaining in your 
mind — and to have sufllered castigation in public may, perhaps, 
justify you in— ah— allowing it to— ah— kankle, as 1 may Say, in 
your injured breast— let me rather act as the — ah — pacificator and 
mediator betv/een two persons for whom, believe me, 1 have the 
sineerest regard, than become the depository of any violent expres- 
sions which one person may think fit, I think, unadvisedly, to — ah 
— employ toward the other.” 

” 1 will answer for it,” said Shelman, roughly— for it was a curi- 
ous trait of this young man that there was no interval of time appre 


182 


AS ATO:hT FLOWSV 


liable between bis attempts to conciliate and his attempts to bully-- 
“ 1 will answer for it that when you are either Mr. Bryceson’s host; 
or guest you have to listen to some pretty language about me/’ 

“1 must deprecate any such insinuation,” said Mr. Bompas, 
turning a little red; it Mr. Bryceson ventured, in my presence, to 
employ toward you, in your absence, the language which you have 
applied toward him in his absence, 1 should administer the safne- 
ah—reorimand to him as 1 have just administered to you.” 

” Vou talk pretty glibly about reprimanding^,” said Sheiman, his 
color also rising. “Pray, who are you that you take such a 
liberty?” 

“ 1 am one,” said Mr. Bompas, very firmly, and with a dignity 
that the stout-hearted old boy’s handsome form and kindling face 
set oft very well, “ who will never— -ah — hesitate to reprove any 
man, no matter what his position, who dares to employ language in 
my hearing concerning any friend of mine, which is not only in- 
decently vituperative, but utterly unjustifiable and positively un 
true,” 

This was possibly the heaviest rhetorical shot that Mr. Bompas 
had ever fired in his life, and its effect was immediately apparent on 
the person against whom it had been discharged. 

“ 1 think,” said he, after a minute’s silence, “ it is a very hard 
thing that 1, a native and a resideat^f this place, can gdt no sympathy 
over this affair from one of the most prominent citizens of the 
town, and yet he is ready to take by the hand a man who hasn’t 
been here any appreciable time, who drops from the clouds, who is 
not even living in his own house, and who may be, for all he knows 
an adventure!.” 

“ Mr. Shelman,” said Mr. Bompas, “ I have made no comment 
on your encounter with Mr. Bryceson, beyond the very natural one 
that it was a most unfortunate and regrettable circumstance, but 
since you accuse me of — ah — undue partisanship, 1 feel constrained 
to tell you that, however much I deplore the method in which Mr. 
Bryceson— ah— acted, whatever happened was due entirely to your 
own — ah— imprudence, to call it by no harsher term, and that no 
peaceable citizen can sympathize with you on the return that you 
met for your lawless attack on Mr. Galbraith’s house and on other 
houses in the town,” 

Mr. Hhelman was puzzled how to answer this. 

“1 am distressed beyond measure that that unhappy hoy so 
Mr. Bompas designated Adolphus Carter—” had a share in the 
work, for, in face of recent events, it will bo necessary for me to 
acquaint his father, who is an old friend of mine, that a removal of 
his son will be desirable.” 

This was one stumbling-block out of Alfred Shelman ’s way, and 
he \fas glad to hear it.” 

“ Well, Mr. Bompas,” he said, ” I am sorry 1 get no more sym- 
pathy from you/’ 

” I regret very much,” said Mr. Bompas, ” that I have none to 
extend to you/’ 

” You will find,” pursued Shelman, ” that you are excessively 
mistaken in Mr. Bryceson’s character.” 

“ 1 trust not,” said Mr. Bompas, 


183 


AS AVOH FLOWS. 

“You may be sure oi one thing, I can see,“ said Shelmau, who 
thought he saw a chance of wounding Mr. Bompas in his dignity^ 
“that Mr. Bryceson will not belong a visitor at your house and 
your host in the house of that other precious friend of his, before he 
will be asking you for one of your daughters^ 1 should extremely 
like to see in what light you will look upon the fellow then!? 

“-What you suggest,’' said Mr. Bompas with a smile, “ is not — 
ah — beyond the bounds of probability, and since you are curious on 
the subject, 1 will — though 1— ah —recognize no right that you have 
to make the inquiry — 1 will inform you how, In that case, 1 shall 
answer Mr. Bryceson, 1 shall — ah — thank him for the honor he is 
doing my family and my house, and shall— accede to his request 
with most especial gratification. 1 wish you a very good- morning, 
Mr. Shelman.” 

And Mr. Bompas, favoring the discomfited young man with astifi 
bow, left him to his thoughts. 

Let us hope they were pleasant ones. 

A few days after this conversation Mrs. Stanhope issued her invi 
tations for her last garden-party of the season, and did not include 
Allred Shelman’s name in her list of expected guests, 

“Are you going to Mrs. Stanhope’s his uncle, Mr. Bold , 
ham, asked him the day before that event, 

“ No,” said he rather surlily, and then, thinking it best to assume 
a careless, if not a don’t-care air, he added, “I’m not in the fair 
lady’s good graces just now, and she hasn’t done me the honor to 
invite me. 1 must endeavor to bear up against the disappointment 
as well as I can.” 

This conversation was taking place in the bank parlor, where they 
were seated alone. 

Mr, Boldham sat tapping his blotting-pad with an ivory letter^ 
opener for a minute or two after receiving this unexpected answer 
to his question. 

Presently he broke silence. 

“ Why don’t you take a couple or three months’ run abroad some- 
where?” he asked. 

Shelman looked up sh arply from the paper on which he was writing. 

“ Take a couple or three months’ run abroad somewhere, did you 
say?” said he. 

“ Yes,^’ replied his uncle, “ why don’t you do it?” 

“ Wby on earth do you want me to go abroad at this time of the 
year?” asked Shelman. 

His uncle coughed dryly. 

“ 1 fancy,” he said, “ that you would find it greatly to your own 
interest to do sc.” 

“ What do you mean?” he said, laying down his pen and staring 
at his uncle. 

“ 1 think that, if 1 were you, 1 should get away from the town tor 
a little time and let things blow over,” said Boldham, 

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” said his uncle, “Ido. You look at the matter in the 
right light, Alfred, and you will see that my advice is good,” 

“ 1 shall be glad,” said Shelman, after a pause, “ if you can show 
me how.” 


184 


AS AYOH FLOWS. 

“ 1 think/’ said Mr. Boldham, “ that yon must hud things in 
Avonham rather unpleasant just now.” 

“ They are not very cheerful, 1 admit/' answered Shelman, “ but 
1 will go my own way about them.” 

” Well/’ said Mr. Boldham, “ 1 think, if you do, you will be very 
foolish.” 

” Pray,” said Shelman, with a frown, “ will you show me why 
you think so?” 

Every! hing that you have touched or attempted during the last 
few months,” said his uncle, rising and planting himself on the 
hearth-rug in the attitude usual with him when addre'ssing any of 
the bank clients, has been a failure.” 

“ Aren’t you speaking a little without book there, sir?” interrupt- 
ed Shelman. 

“Not in the least,” said Boldham. “1 may be generalizing 
things a little too much, that is all.” 

“ 1 fancy you are,” muttered the other. 

“You were speaking early in the year oi taking the Coombes,— 
why did you not do that?” 

“ You know very well why I did not,” hotly returned Shelman, 
who saw that he was going to be attacked from a carefully prepared 
catalogue, and resented the notieti; “ would you make me responsi- 
ble for a woman’s caprices?” 

“Yes,” answered Mr. Boldham emphatically, “ when you fail to 
turn those caprices to your own advantage. ” 

“Go on,” said Shelman, “let me hear what more you have to 
advance, uncle.” 

“ Failure number one,” said Mr. Boldham imperturbably. “ You 
tailed, 1 believe, in much the same manner over so.me land which 
you wished to purchase as an adjunct to your new house.” 

“ From the same foolishness of a frivolous and vacillating woman, 
be it remembered,” said Shelman. 

“Failure number two,” said Mr. Boldham. “Those two are, 
however, minor matters; number three is of a more important char- 
acter.” 

“ Pray what is that?” said Shelman, and there was a flush in his 
cheek as he said it. 

“ Alfred,” said Mr. Boldham,. “ if 1 hadn’t known you for a good 
many years as a good man of business and a clever hand at finance, 

1 should have put you down over this particular failure as a born 
fool.” 

Alfred replied neither to the praise nor the blame, but shifted un- 
easily in his arm-chair. 

“ There has been scarcely a week,” pursued his uncle, “ from the 
beginning of this year, in which I have not expected you to come to 
me — as a matter of courtesy only, of course, for you are independent 
of me — and announce j'our engagement to Mrs. Stanhope. If I 
polled Avonham 1 could bring fifty men, and goodness only knows 
how many women, who haye always had the same idea in their 
heads. Why, in the name of Pate, haven’t you asked that woman 
to be your wife long ago?” 

Shelman looked up with a short hard laugh, not very pleasant to 
hear. 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 185 

" 1 Lave not been quite so neglectful as you imagine/' lie said. 

I have asked her. " 

* ‘ And s he refused you V* 

“ Most emphadcally/' 

“ Humph!” said Mr. Boldham reflectively, “ 1 did not know that 
Failure number three.” 

“ Which,” said Shelman, “ if you consider properly, will account 
for failures number one and twOc” 

“That is true,” replied Boldham. “Well, I should have 
thought, Alfred, that you had been a match for that dandified young 
puppy, Mr. Walter Rivers, in anything, even with the ladies.” 

“ Walter Rivers!” cried Shelman; “ why, what has he to do with 
Mrs. Stanhope's rejection of me?” 

“Probably everything,” answered Mr. Boldham, with irritating 
calmness, “ since he is going to marry her.” 

Shelman sprung to his feel with a great oath. “ It can't be true!” 
he cried excitedly, “ who told you?” 

“ Sit down,” saidhisaincle petulantly, “ and do not proclaim your 
feelings to all the clerks in the office; it is perfectly true. 1 repeat, 
how came you to let him walk off with this prize from under your 
very nose?”. 

“How did you learn that Walter Rivers was going to marry her?” 
asked Shelman, in a low tone. 

“ From Sir Headingly Gann.” 

“ He told you it as an assuredly settled fact?” 

“ Certainly; he spoke of it to me as partly a matter of business. 
We are friendly enough: 1 am not so foolish as to have quarreled 
with Sir Headingly because he beat me in the election, or rather be- 
cause 1 failed to beat him; no, our opposition to each other ceased at 
the declaration of the result of the poll, and our relations have been 
uninterruptedly friendly ever since. How have you acted? You 
made the election a stick to beat a particular dog with and the dog 
has bitten you. Failure number four. Next, to wind everything 
up, you threaten a man with an action you dare not sustain; you 
lose a banR customer in the most ridiculous way that has ever been 
brought to my notice since 1 have been a banker, and finally you re- 
ceive, in the face of all Avonhara, a most tiv^mendous thrashing 
through meddling in a matter that should have been beneath a man 
of your position, and attacking a man who from I)r. Mompesson’s 
account must be possessed of the skill and strength of a prize fighter. 
Failures five, six, and seven, and if you do not consider that your 
best plan will be to try change of ah for awhile — 1 do.” 

So saying, Mr. Boldham, not waiting for his nephew’s reply, took 
his hat and left the room and the bank, leaving Shelman sitting at 
his table, consumed with the same rage that he had felt at his rejec- 
tion. This time his passion was subdued a little by fear. He had 
chafed under his uncle's methodical enumeration of his failures, but 
he could not help feeling that luck had been against him, and that 
he had brought his present position on himself. But the sense of con- 
secutive defeats, and the remembrance of his personal chastisements, 
were nothing in comparison with the acute mental pain which he 
felt as he thought of who had been his successful rival in the wid- 
ow's affection. He had almost made up his mind to take his uncle’s 


186 


AS ATOK J’LOWS. 

advice, and for a time at least absent himself from Avonbam: bad 
his temper been less obstinate he might have done so, and saved 
himself a worse fate than any that had yet overtaken him, but his 
stubborn heart refused. 

“ I’ll wait and see the end of it,” he saM; there is many a slip 
between cup and lip, and if 1 can yet put a spoke in Master Walter 
Rivers’ wheel, he may depend on my doing it.” 

Thus he mused, and heedless (he fact of his recent defeats, 
planned yet again how he might pay off a fancied injury; while 
Adolphus Carter, his catspaw, and the man on whom he had basely 
turned, having been released from any further attendance at Mr. 
Bompas’s office, was by no means pleased with his holiday, but sat 
pjoodily alone, or walked by himself over his father’s estate, gun in 
hand, but indifferent to his sport, and scheming only how to satisfy 
his revenge on Alfred Shelman, who had brought him into all this 
trouble; and getting every day more and more incensed against his 
enemy and less and less master of himselto 

It is a dangerous thing when a man goes about internally craving 
vengeance on another man, and carrying a gun in his hand. 

The gun talks to him. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A BOMBSHELL IN MR. BOMPAS’S PEvfo 

Wajltee BrycesoN and Fred Markham, having given a good ac^ 
count of a vast number of Mr. Millard’s birds; having also accepted 
one or two invitations from neiarhboring landowners, having the 
same or a similar end in view; and having basked tor a month in 
the smiles of their iady« loves, declared one day to each other that 
this sort of thing was all very well, you know, but really they must, 
just for a weeic or two, turn their attention for a little while to their 
private affairs. Having said which, they went on in their usual 
fashion for a weejc, reviving the subject at breakfast- time regularly 
every morning, and blowing it away altogether with the smoke of 
their firsi pipes. At the expiration of this period, having been rather 
more solemn than usual one morning over the matter, they broached 
the subject at the Bompas mansion that evening at supper, wdiich 
meal very often found them at the well-filled board of that hospita- 
ble house. 

Bryceson's plea of having to set in order his house and domestic 
affairs in Essex was confided to Miss Louisa privately, and doubtless 
met with her approval ; Markham’s determination to look after his 
-business concerns and get them into proper shape in anticipation of 
a certain event was cordially approved both by Miss Lucy and her 
revered progenitor, with whom the possession of business-like habits 
formed a viitue. 

Adelaide laughed at her sisters and their swains, and threw out 
hints concerning the amusements and attractions of London, which 
proved that the young lady bad used both her eyes and ears to the 
best advantage during her recent residence there. 

Howbeit, Bryceson and Markham departed for awhile from 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 187 

Avonham^ leaving their lady-loves in the parent nest, ^rnd the faith- 
ful Edward in charge of the Coombes: 

The final adieus were paid the evening before their departure, 
when Mr. Eompas gathered some of his friends to his house — 

not, 1 assure you, to make merry because you are leaving us for a 
time, ’ ’ he told the friends ; a merry old-fashioned country-town meet- 
ing, with substantial viands, a hearty welcome, a gay company, and 
a carpet dance. Such, gatherings were not at all infrequent in 
Avonham during the winter, and although Mr. Bompas and his 
womenkind issued their invitations for an evening party rather early 
in the season, so that the recipients wondered, and blamed the 
Bompases for anticipating the winter, the unanimous acceptance of 
the invitations proved how the Avonham folk hailed the commence- 
ment of the homely festivities with which they enlivened that sea- 
son. 

The behavior of the young ladies who, for the first time, found 
themselves within hail of our two lively friends Bryceson and Mark- 
ham, was amusing in the extreme to the Misses Bompas, who had, 
as we have seen, keen eyes for the idiosyncrasies of the young females 
of their circle, and no less so to the young men themselves. Carte 
blanche lor the evening having been "accorded them by Miss Louisa 
and Miss Lucy, they took advantage of it to the fullest extent. Two 
such masters of the art of dancing had not been met before in these 
festive gatherings, and the prettiest girls and the best partners were 
at their service the whole of the evening; indeed, Fred remarked to 
his friend, as they wiped their heated foreheads and cooled their 
thirsty throats in one of the intervals between the dances, it was 
rather a good thing they were going away for a bit, for matters 
otherwise might become somewhat complicated. At any rate, he 
added, however safe they were with the girls, it was pretty certain 
they were not going to increase the number of their male friends in 
Avonham, either by their Terpsichorean feats or the charms of 
their conversation to the other sex. 

“ You have been flirting disgracefully all the evening,” said Ade- 
laide, as she came up to where they were standing; “Lucy and 
Lou were very foolish to have sanctioned such a graceless proceed- 
ing.” 

“It’s not unmingled pleasure, Adelaide,” said Bryceson — they- 
used one another’s Christian names in the two houses now — that 
has to come in the next dance, which you have promised me.” 

“You shall do penance for your sins, sir,” said Adelaide, “ and 
sit it out with me.” 

“ My dear Adelaide, 1 wish all my sins required no heavier pen- 
ance,” answered Bryceson. 

“You won’t mind it though, will you?” said Adelaide, “for 
really 1 want to speak to you seriously.” 

He gave her his arm, and they were soon seated in one of the com-, 
fortable window-embrasures which are common in the good old- 
fashioned country houses such as was Mr. Bompas ’s. 

“You know,” said she, when the next dance was proceeding, and 
they were secure from listeners, ' * that when Harry went away he- 
told me the matter th^t originally brought him to Avouham, Did 


188 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 

*’ Oil, yes; he told me that oa our down to Liverpool/’ 

“ Then of course you know that he told me to inform you, in case 
of anything happening here, such as an announcement of her ap- 
proaching marriage. 1 don't know what put into his head that she 
was going to he married at all, but he had the idea and seemed to 
cling strongly to it." 

“ Harry's ideas," said Bryceson, “have a habit of turning out 
rather more true than other people’s facts; he has confided his opin- 
ion to me, and 1 own that he has good reason for it. " 

“ Do you know what it was that made him think she was going 
to marry Walter Eivers?" 

“ Seeing them together one day at Avonham Koad railway sta- 
tion. We had ridden over together — it was whilst you wxie in Lon- 
don; Sir Headingly Cann was there. Young Rivers, w^hom 1 must 
say 1 like, 4n spite of an effeminate manner which ne> assumes, and 
which 1 fancy he will grow out of — introduced us both to the lady. 
It was on our way back that Harry told me of the opinion he held, 
which was that there was something fatherly in tlie old man’s air, 
and that there was matrimony in the wind." 

‘ ‘ It never struck either of you, I suppose, ’ * said Adelaide laugh- 
ing, “ that it might be Sir Headingly Cann w^ho was to be the lucky 
man?" 

“ Certainly not, Adelaide," said Bryceson, looking at her in great 
surprise; “ of the two ideas yours is by far the more astonishing, 
and 1 must say 1 think it the more unlikely." 

“ Nothing is so likely to happen as the improbable," said Ade- 
laide; “ 1 was taught that at school." 

“ H’m?" said Br3xeson; “ do ^xu know, Adelaide, 1 think your 
* young idea ’ is ‘ shooting ’ bejxnd the mark in this case. What 
has put this new notion into your wise head?" 

“ The common failing of our sex, Walter — that is, according to 
you superior creatures— curiosity. " 

“ Most charming of feminine attributes — for women, that is— but 
how did curiosity put it there?” 

“ Yesterday morning, you and Fred — ^look at him hauling Mrs. 
Foil well round the room — doesn't he look happy?" 

Fred, with a seventeen-stone partner, whose ideas of dancing were 
coeval with Mr. Bompas’s ideas of oratorical examples, looked any^ 
thing but blissful. 

“ Fred looks like a tug hauling a liner out into the Mersey," said 
Brjxeson; “ but go on with your tale." 

“ Curiosity, apparently, is not confined to one sex; well then, yes- 
terday, w^hile you and Fred were cooped up here with Lou and 
Lucy, 1 took advantage of a fine day and rode out with papa." 

“ Harry not being here," said Bryceson, leaning back and sur- 
veying the ceiling; “ just so." 

“As you say,” said Adelaide, with a merry laugh and a pretty 
little blush; “my future lord and master not being here, and 1 
being anxious to enjoy the sweets of freedom for a brief space, 

I had Brunetta saddled, and rode out with papa, who had to go to 
Dunstalne on business. On the way we met Sir Headingly Cann, 
riding, with a groom following him. He pulled up when he saw us, 
and turned to ride with us, saying that he wanted to speak to papa. 


AS Avoir FLOWS. 189 

Now if you will consider the matter for a moment you will perceive 
that there were only two courses open to me to choose from.” 

“Spare me the pain of consideration, Adelaide; what were the 
two courses?” 

“ Cannot you see? Either to rifle side by side with papa and Sir 
Headingly, or to fall back and jog along in the rear with Sir Head- 
ingly’s groom. Have you any idea which I adopted?” 

“ 1 fancy 1 could give a guess that would be tolerably near the 
mark,” answered Bryceson. 

“ Ko doubt,” said Adelaide; “a sense of my own dignity, of 
which 1 have a great deal more than you imagine. Master Walter, 
combined with my share of the most charming of feminine attri- 
butes, the possession of wiiich 1 confessed just now, kept me m the 
front rank of the cavalcade.” 

“ So that you heard the conversation that passed between Sir 
Headingly and your father?” 

“Yes, and as of course they both saw me and knew that 1 could 
hear, and as, moreover, there did not seem to be any desire on Sir 
Headingly ’s part to make a ^cret of the matter,^there was no great 
harm in my doing so, I hope. 1 often transact small matters of 
business for papa.” 

“ What was the nature of the conversation you overheard in your 
business capacity?” 

“ This, Walter,” said Adelaide; “ now, let us talk seriously for a 
little while; papa is to survey some property for Sir Headingly,. 
which property is to be settled on Mrs. Stanhope on their marriage. 
1 heard papa say that it would be a most suitable and proper arrange- 
ment, considering the respective ages of the parties; 1 heard him 
congratulate him upon the matter, and then Sir Headingly turned to 
me and said that he did not want the matter spoken of, as" neither he 
nor Mrs. Stanhope cared to have the good people of Avonham talk- 
ing over their affaii s ; he added that in good time the arrangement 
would be announced, and that until that time he relied on my keep- 
ing the secret. Walter Rivers’ name was never mentioned once dur- 
ing the conversation.” 

Bryceson pondered a minute before replying — 

“ Well, Adelaide, your surmise seems not unlikely to be a correct 
one; it may be the old man and not the young one 'who is destined 
for the sacrifice; so far as we are concerned we are left in the same 
position. Until there is some public announceinent of her marrying 
some one we can scarcely act. The one thing 1 was alraid of was 
that a mine might be sprung upon us all by a marriage laking place 
away from here, and without our knowledge; since the matter has 
been mentioned to your father, there seems now no danger of that, 
and 1 think we will leave things as they are. Of course^ if any defi- 
nite intelligence reaches you, you know what to do— acquaint me at 
once.” 

“ 1 will; ah! the dance is over; we shall have to stop now for 
fear of being overheard.” 

“ Tell me one thing. Have you ever mentioned anything to your 
sisters?” 

“ Not a word; they are quite in the dark about it; it is the only 
secret we have ever had from one another,” 


190 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 

They spoke no more ot that secret, for Adelaide’s hand was 
claimed by the fortunate youth who had engaged it, and Biyceson 
himself was obliged to go and look after his own partner for that 
dance. 

The next morning the two friends left Avonham, being driven 
over to Avonham Road by Mr. Christopher Raraty, who had found 
the inhabitants of the Coombes among the best of his customers dur- 
ing their stay. 

* * ^ * * * * 

As was natural in a town so respectable and decorous as Avon- 
ham, Sunday was one of -the great institutions of the place. If old 
Mas’r Killett allowed his memory to stray as far backward on the 
path ot lite as it could go, it is likely that he would find that the 
most vivid of all his earliest recollections were the facts that Satur- 
day night was “ tub night,” and that he wore his best clothes on the 
following day. Since his early days indeed there had been one great 
change; when he was young all flocked to the parish church, and 
such dissenters as existed in those times were a feeble folk who 
preached in holes and corners, and were^’reatly despised and hated, 
except where they were pitied as lunatics. Now, though St. Hil- 
degarde’s was the noblest, it was not the only place of worship in 
Avonham. Three chapels ot as many different sects attracted con- 
gregations of their own, and though in so old-fashioned a town the 
church held the pride of place, the chapel tolk, under which title 
all olasses of dissent were grouped by the orthodox, were a power 
in the place, as Sir Headingly Cann had found at the last election. 
However, the adherents to the Church of England plumed them- 
selves when they considered that the fine old abliey held on Sunday 
most of what was prominent and wealthy of the commonwealth of 
the town< 

The church itself was a fine one. In its crypt antiquarians gravely 
passed their hands over the surface of the moldings of three or. 
four rounded arches, and murmured with gratification, Hatchet- 
work —Saxon;” the remainder of the crypt arches were Norman, and 
early Norman too — in the nave there was never caviling at the gen- 
uiueness and beauty of the Norman work; there was good Tran- 
sitional work in the choir; the west' door was the pride of the coun- 
try round, and the workmanship of the whole was so solid that the 
hand ot that^Goth of Goths, the Gothic “restorer,” had found no 
occasion for disfiguring the whole pile by utilitarian windows or 
nondescript strengthenings; and generation after generation of 
church wardens had eschewed whitewash. And this, too, was a part 
of the country in which there was not the all-satisfying legend of 
“ Oliver Cromwell ” to account for any sad traces of Iconoclastic 
barbarity. So that the church of St. Hildegarde remained, as its 
pious builders had intended it, a grand monument of men of whom 
it has been said— 

“ They dreamed not of a perishable horn 
Who thus could build.” 

Let me pause "*n my tale for a moment solemnly to call down the 
whole of the curse of Slawkenburgius upon the whole tribe of igno- 
rant church defacers who iitidei the title of “ restorers,” have done 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 


191 


their best, are doing their best, and will do their best to mutilate, 
destroy, and ruin the noble shrines of our common faith all over this 
land, so rich in them, and so proud of them. Pace “ my uncle 
Tobjr,” so mote it be! 

The services at St. Hildegarde’s were distinctly Evangelical. The 

doctrines and practice ” of the vicar had not "been influenced by 
the Tractarians. The worthy man had puzzled over “ Primitive 
Episcopacy,” frowned a good deal over “ Kites and Customs of the 
Church,” and refused to be moved from his beaten path by “ Via 
Media he put back the tracts on his shelf, where they accumu- 
lated ninth dust, refreshed himself with a course of Barrow, and 
went his old way, much to the content of his congregation. Be- 
tween the services which the subjects of Good Queen Anne heard 
and those attended by the lieges of Good Queen Victoria, there were 
but two points of diference — one the change of words necessitated 
by the deaths of the rulers of the land, the other the substitution of 
an organ for the time-honored band of rustic instrumentalists who 
formerly led the singing. Mas’r Killett had played the fiddle — 

For French of Paris was to him unknown,” 

and he would have rejected the word violin — in the choir in his 
youth, and was years before he could be reconciled to the change; 
but the feeling died out as one by one his fellow musicians died off; 
and he could listen, with gratification now, to the tones of the in- 
strument which Reuben Matley handled with exquisite skill. 

For the congregation, it was appreciative, easily pleased, and liked 
its religion soothing. Its elders were gifted in slumber, its youth dec- 
orous in behavior. It had its signs and portents, and the amatory 
contemporary history of its members might be easily read by the 
experienced. If a young member of the male sex was observed to 
be gazing intently at a fair worshiper during the singing or the 
reading of the Psalms (he couldn’t see her at lesson or sermon times, 
the pews were too high), the congregation knew that his hitherto 
private admiration was now publicly declared. It at a subsequent 
service the maiden bashfully returned the gaze, it was taken as a 
token that she had been informed of the homage paid to her and 
approved of the same. Then the good folk waited for the engage- 
ment and wedding to -follow. They had begun courting the same 
way themselves, in the same place, years before. 

This rule did not hold good with or apply to the Pariahs. Those 
graceless youths —when they came to church, which was seldom- 
stared at every comely damsel in St. Hildegarcle’s, and had been 
know n to wink. There were dark and time-obscured legends that 
the ecclesiastical powders that be in Avonham (no one rightly knows 
whether it was the vicar, the curates, or the churchwardens, or all 
five combined) once threatened open and public leproof in church, and 
that menacing hints were thrown out respecting penance before the 
congregation; a ceremony which a Somersetshire divine revived in 
this’ present year of grace, bless his archaic heart! 

Mr. Bompas had b^een vicar’s churchwarden lor years, and took a 
justifiable pride in his position; in the years when he had occupied 
the two posts of mayor and churchwarden he had felt indeed that he 
was a pillar both of Church and State. The office, which he filled 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


102 

with all the zeal and integrity that marked the whole of the trans- 
actions of this worthy man, was in his eyes a vastly honorable one, 
and the churchwardenkpew which he occupied with his family was 
the most comfortable in the church, and admirably suited for that 
calm meditation and profound repose of mind which should dis- 
tinguish a churchwarden. Mr. Bornpas always reposed— liis mind 
— from the middle of the sermon to the benediction. 

It was a fine November morning about a fortnight after the party. 
Bryceson and Markham, let us hope, were at service at the parish 
church next to the residence of the former in Essex, they had been 
slaying pheasants the day before, and, 1 say, 1 hope they were at 
church, and that the parson came home to dine with them, though 1 
have my doubts about it; Galbraith being in a .different longitude 
was most probably asleep in his berth ; in Avonham the church and 
chapels were full, and the pew occupied by the Bornpas family held 
its full complement. 

Sir Headingly Cann made a point of attending church. It was a 
public profession not only of faith, but of politics; usually he was 
accompanied by his nephew when that gentleman was in the town, 
but this morning he was alone. His quondam rival, Mr, Boldham, 
was in a peW not tar from him, he was in one corner, and Alfred 
Shelman in another. It was not often that the latter was seen in 
St. Hildegarde’s; he was not very constant in his Sunday duties, but 
on this particular day he had decided to be present, public scandal 
was dying out about him now, and there was a kind of policy in his 
presence. He voted the thing a bore, but it was judicious to under- 
go the fatigue, and he w^as here, little thinking^ as people remarked 
afterward, that it was the last time he would see the inside of St. 
Hildegarde's. 

Mrs. Stanhope was absent, and her pew empty. That Sunday 
morning had its results for her also, though she little dreamed of 
them. 

The bell ceased its -summons, Mr. Keuben Matley played a 
voluntary, the clergy took their places, and the service began. There 
were one or two persons in that church who would remember that 
service all their lives long. 

It opened uneventfully enough. Tfie latest engaged young lady 
came in late in the middle of the Venitej followed by her blushing 
srrain carrying her books, and internally execrating the whole affair; 
the Psalms w^ere duly got through; the inevitable boy dropped the 
customary marble in the middle of the first lesson, and was poked 
by the beadle; the congregation sung the Te Deum lustily, Jackson 
in P, and the younger of the two curates read the second lesson. 

Part of that lesson was the story of the woman taken in adultery, 
and how she igiis not condemned'. 

It was a peculiar fancy of the good old vicar that he should 
always read the bans of marriage himself. This custom was well 
understood in Avonham, and the slight pause between the comple- 
tion of the lesson and the vicar’s walking to the reading-desk from 
his seat at the communion table, which would have appeared to a 
stranger like a hitch in the service, was familiar to them. The read- 
ing of the bans was always interesting. Some people could tell 
you of bans put up once or twice and then withdrawn i there were 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


193 


one or two sad oases where death had caused this, and in one or two 
cases there was scandal ; so that every one always listened with great 
attention to the announcements. This Sunday there were a good 
many names on the list. People who have been 

“ Courting in the summer weather ” 

get married toward the close of autumn, and thus have time to 
settle down a bit and face the winter together. First came the 
“ third time people, two couples whose names had grown familiar, 
and who no longer blushed as they heard them read out; then fol- 
lowed the “ second time parties, three couples who smiled at each 
other and blushed, but did not tremble; then the neophytes, who 
blushed and trembled, and thought how very curious their own 
names sounded in church. 

Last of all, and with some special emphasis, the vicar read: — 

“ Also between Walter Cann Fivers, bachelor, and 
Laura Constance Stanhope, widow, both of this 
parish; these are for tlie first time of asking.” 


There was a sensible movement of astonishment throughout the 
whole building, a rustle as of every woman’s dress and the scrape 
of every man’s collar against his cheek; the sharp crash of a fall- 
ing book was heard in the orderly pew of Mr. Borapas, and that 
worthy felt his wrist gripped hard and convulsively; turning 
sharply he saw his daughter Adelaide staring with wide-opened eyes 
at the vicar; every vestige of color had left her cheeks, but now 
lushed back in a tide that turned her fair face crimson; with her 
lelt hand still tightly clasping her father’s wrist she half rose from 
her seat, her mouth opened to speak : 

“ X 


Mr. Reuben Matley struck the first chord of the Benedictus and the 
congregation stood up. 

Adelaide remained seated, and only shook her head at the whis- 
pered inquiry of her mother as to whether she was ill. When a 
few verses had been sung — feebly, for the people were brimful of 
wonder at the announcement of the approaching marriage of their 
Queen of Society — Adelaide passed before her father, opened the 
door of the pew, and v/alking down the aisle, to the increased won- 
derment of the already astounded church-goers, left the edifice, fol- 
lowed by her father, whose face, from the combination of anxiety, 
wonder, excitement, and the results of a dangerous dive for his hat, 
presented a compound of expression and color which would have 
taxed the skill of a Rubens to depict. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A MAID OP THE WEST SAXONS. 

Adelaide bad almost reached the gate of the church-yard which 
was at the side of the market-place, when she heard the voice of 
her father. There was no one about; the devout were in the church, 

7 - - 


194 


AS ATO'N' PLOWS. 

the “ careless ** and the domestic indoors, so that the churchwarden 
who had lost a good deal of ground at the start and was not so agile 
as his daughter, called to her. She turned at the sound, for she had 
no idea that her father was toliowing her, and waited tor him to 
come up. 

“ My dear girl,’’ said he, trotting to her like an anxious elephant, 
“ whatever is the matter? Arewou well, my child?” 

“No, papa,.” 

“ My dear Adelaide, what can have possessed you to leave the 
church in this — ah — extraordinary manner? Whatever will the 
people think?” 

Adelaide made no direct answer to the question. “Papa,” she 
said, “ 1 must go home and write a letter at once; it must be taken 
over to Avouham Road and sent by train to London, where it must 
be posted to-night. It will be safer than telegraphing,” she mur- 
mured to herself. 

Mr. Bompas began to wonder whether he had really got up that 
morning, dressed, shaved, breakfasted,, and gone to church, or 
whether he would not presently wake up in his bed at home. 

“ Has anything happened?” hestammered. “ Wasitabout^ — about 
the marriage?” 

There was only one marriage in Avonham’s mind that morning, 
he knew very well. 

“ Yes,, papa,” said Adelaide firmly; “ 3 ^ou will have to know it 
sooner or later. The next time those bans are published they must 
be torbiddi n. If Harry or Walter or Fred had been here to-day 
they would have 66^?i.Jorbidden; but it was too hard a task for me. 
1 must send to Walter Bryceson at once. Oh, that Harry were here!” 

“Mr. Rivers’ bans forbidden!” said Mr. Bompas, never giving 
a thought to Mrs. Stanhope. “ My dear Addie, what new scandal 
is this?” 

“ It has no connection with Mr. Rivers that he knoTvs of, poor 
dupe!” said Adelaide, in a tone half pity, half scorn. “ Papa, that 
marriage can never take place. Mrs. Stanhope’s first husband is 
alivel” 

Mr. Bompas sat plump down on the flat stone of a low family 
vault and stared at his eldest daughter in a helpless and utterly 
crushed manner. For a minute he was literally stricken dumb with 
surprise. Then Adelaide turned to the gate, and he mechanical!}^ 
rose and followed her. They were halfway across the market-place 
before he spoke, and then it was almost in a whisper. 

“ What are you telling me?” he said. “ Mrs. Stanhope’s husband 
alive! Something has turned your brain, Addie! He was my 
schoolfellow and my friend. I was in his house at his death; I saw 
him in his coffin on the day of his funeral; I followed him to his 
grave. Alive! There are five hundred people in this town who 
know him to be d«ad. ” 

“I am not speaking of Mr. Stanhope, father,” answered Ade- 
laide, walking on and speaking in a tone as low as that which her 
father had used. “It will be a great shock to you when you know 
all the truth. Let ns get indoors, where no one may hear us, and I 
will tell you everything. 1 have known of it ever since my engage- 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 195 

ment to Harry, and it has been almost too hard a burden to-day for 
me to bear.” 

The wonderina; servant who opened the door to them had her 
curiosity appeased by Adelaide’s quiet remark, “ 1 am not very well, 
Jane, and had to come out of church,” and retired to the kitchen 
sympathizing. Father and daughter went upstairs to the drawing- 
room, where, in spite of the cool air, Adelaide opened one of the 
large windows. She seated lierselt on tlje sofa, took off her bonnet 
and gloves, and gave a sigh of relief. 

“ 1 should have choked in church,” she said; “ the whole affair 
seemed to rush on my brain at once, and 1 felt beside myself for a 
minute or two. Give me a glass of wine, papa.” 

Her voice was calm and steady now, and the trembling that had 
seized her in the church had ceased. She drank the wine, and opened 
a blotting case containing writing materials. 

“ Now, papa,” she said, ” 1 must write to Walter Bryceson, and 
the letter must be sent as l .said. First 1 will tell you my secret. 
The woman whom you and 1, and every one in Avonham has known 
tor years as Mrs. Stanhope, the woman who married your old friend 
Mrs. Stanhope, has no more claim to the name she bears, or he prop- 
erty she holds, than — than you have. She is the wife of Mr. Gal- 
braith’s— of Harry ’s — brother. ’ ’ 

Mr. Bompas gasped. He was so moved that he was obliged to sit 
down on the nearest chair, into which he dropped much as he had 
dropped on to the tiat tombstone in the church-yard just before. He 
passed his hand feebly over his forehead and head, as if the com- 
munication had hit him and hurt him — which it had. 

“ Mr. Galbraith’s brotherl” hesaid at last; ” I have neverheaid — ’* 

“It is only since Harry came to Avonham that he knew he was 
alive. She thought him dead as well, years ago. Harry told me 
this the ni^t we became engaged,” she said, and blushed as she 
said it. “The secret is known to Walter Bryceson and Fred Mark- 
ham as well, and lY alter Biyceson must be sent for at once. Dear 
papa, 1 can’t help w’^hat scandal it makes, or what people say; I 
must do as I have been told to do, and you must keep the secret too, 
as 1 have kept it, until Walter Bryceson comes, and then you shall 
know all. Forgive me, my dearest father, for having had a secret 
from you all so long; it is the only one that has ever been between 
us.” 

Then she kissed him, and a few tears dropped, which in a weaker 
woman woula have been expanded into a fit of hysterics, and then, 
drying them, she set about her task like the stout-hearted girl 
she was. 

Adelaide had inherited her bravery. Her father, pompous and 
stilted as he was, had Nelson’s knowledge of fear — which was just 
none at all— -and plenty of decision and action. The-news really 
was a blow to him, but the sight of his daughter doing her duty 
roused him to action, in which no man could be prompter or swifter. 
He rang the bell, drank a glass of wine to steady himself, and said 
to the servant, as though he were giving the most, ordinary order — 

“ Jane, tell Watts to put the brown mare in the dog-cart at once; 
it must be at the door in ten minutes. ” 

Jane stared. Such an order had not been given in Mr, Bompas’s 


196 


AS AVOiT FLOWS. 


house since she had been in it. She was too well trained, however, 
to hesitate, and withdrew. All Avonham was destined to be sur- 
prised that day apparently; certainly Watts, who had been in his 
present post for twenty five years, was when he received the order. 

“ Drat the fussy wench!’' he said, putting down “ Zadkiel’s Al- 
manac,” which he was reading in the harness-room — W atts preferred 
that place to St. Hildegarde’s on Sunday mornings— “ what do ’ee 
mean? Don’t ’ee play none of yer kitchen oonderments on me, 
s’naa. Master be to church.” 

‘‘HeVe a corned home, tell ’ee,” said Jane, ‘‘an’ the dog- cart’s 
got to be at door in ten minutes. What’s use o’ flyin’ at 1? 
Goo’n ask him yerself!” and she slammed the harness- room door 
hard and brought down the bin-dust on the harness, which always 
pleases a groom. 

” Dal the young hussy!” said Watts, taking down the harness 
however; ” whatever new game’s this to play of a Sunday in church 
time? Happen some one’s ill. and master sent for thoo.” 

And muttering and grumbling, he proceeded to harness the mare, 
and had the dog- cart round in the prescribed time. He was some- 
what disappointed too to find that it was wanted, and that ne was 
not the victim of a hoax. He went to the kitchen, made the amende 
honorable to Jane, and got a mug of beer, over which he gossiped 
with the maids, and made eleven guesses at the errand of his master 
and young mistress, discussion on which subject was carried on un- 
til the cook’s mind got confused with gossip and gravy combined, 
and she cleared the kitchen. 

The various congregations were streaming homeward when Mr. 
Borupas and Adelaide drove back from Avonham Road, but the 
mind of the churchwarden was too much taken up by his daughter’s 
communication to notice the looks of wonder that greeted them 
along the street. Adelaide had told him all, and he hao emphat- 
ically declared that, after that, he w^as never going to be surprised 
again. Adelaide sat defiant of all the glances. She had need of 
firmness now, she said to herself, and if people were talking about 
her to-day, as she w^as perfectly well aw^are they were, they would 
soon have such a theme as Avonham had never enjoyed, and a 
scandal with a vengeance. 

Arrived at home she ran upstairs to her own room, avoiding the 
drawing-room, where she heard the voices of her mother and sis- 
ters. Mr. Bompas entered the latter apartment. 

” Mercy on us, Abel!” said Mrs. Bompas, as her lord and master 
came in; ” whatever is afoot? what made Addie rush out of church 
like that, and where ham you been?” 

‘‘ My dears,” said Mr. Bompas to his family, uplifting a depre- 
catory hand, ‘‘ Adelaide has just told me the most astounding piece 
of news 1 have ever heard. It is a matter confided to her % Mr. 
Galbraith, and one that she has been bound to keep from us all till 
now, when she has told me. Louisa, my dear, your sister has sent 
an urgent message to Mr. llryceson, and- he will doubtless be here 
with all speed; he is also concerned in the matter. My dear,” he 
gravely concluded, addressing his wife, ‘‘ 1 have never had a secret 
tiom you, nor shall this be one; but at present the matter is one of 
such extraordinary moment, and deals with such vast interest, that 


AS AVOISr T'LOWS. 


197 

until Mr. Bryceson arrives we will, if you please, have no discus- 
sion about it; and remember, girls, you are not to question Adelaide. 
The matter concerns us only indirectly, and you will know all in 
due time.” 

So Adelaide was not asked any questions, and the dinner being 
announced and served was eaten, though it was a very quiet meal. 

* * * * * * * 

“ My dear Laura — you see 1 am taking the uncle’s privilege al- 
ready, ’’—laughed Sir Headingly Cann the next afternoon, “you 
mustn’t be angry with alter, or 1 shall be angry with myself for 
having told you. 1 remember very well speaking to him on that 
very subject— ah— some time as:o, and he assured me that beyond 
paying the natural tribute of admiration to the young lady’s good 
looks— as one would admire a' picture, you know — he had never, 
thought in any serious way of Miss Bompas.” 

“ So that it is a case of wounded vanity, and not of blighted 
affections. Sir Headingly? Well, I’ll promise you that Walter 
^sha’n’t be scolded, 1 am just going to call on Mr. Bompas; will 
you give me your arm so far? how soon it gets dark now! we shall 
have Christmas on us before we dream of it.” 

Sir Headingly had been regaling Mrs. Stanhope with an account 
of the surprise with which the publication of the bans had been 
received, and had informed her of the abrupt departure of Adelaide . 
from the church. In.common with many people, he had assigned 
a reason for this, very wide of the truth. Pride in his nephew, be- 
lief in his powers of fascination, and a remembrance of some idle 
tales that he had once heard coupling Walter Rivers’s name with 
Adelaide feompas's, had led him to imagine that the announcement 
of Walter’s intended marriage had shattered some illusions and 
given her a shock, the force of which she had been injudicious 
^ enough to confess to the world by her action of the day before. 
This opinion he had confided to Mrs. Stanhope, after an interview 
with his nephew, who, strange to say, did not enter into his feel- 
ings, and vehemently combated the idea he had formed. Sir Head- 
ingly had laughingly put aside the question, but had diplomatically 
determined that he would smooth the way for his nephew by being 
himself Mrs. Stanhope’s informant. He Was delighted with his 
success. Fre-matiimonial squabbles, the old bachelor knew, were 
often very awkward things to adjust; when the couple were made 
fast in wedlock, they might squabble on ordinary topics as much as 
they chose without any of his interference, but things had better be 
kept agreeable until then. It was the simple philosophy of a man 
who had never himself ventured into the- arena, but who had looked 
from a safe height on many connubial battles and lovers’ wars, and, 
if we are to believe that lookers-on see most of the battle, then we 
must venerate the judgment of this old spectator. 

Sir Headingly left Mrs. Stanhope at Mrs. Bom pas’s door, and took 
a courtly leave of her. 

It was very rarely that Mrs. Stanhope visited her agent in South 
Street. She was received at the door by Jane, with respect akin to 
veneration and was ushered into the drawing-room. 

Mrs. Stanhope looked round the apartment with some interest. 
It was as handsome in its proportions, she observed, as any in her 


198 


AS AVO^T FLOWS. 


own house; and everywhere were evidences of tastes more artistic, 
and accomplishments more varied, than she had expected to find in 
any family of the town. She gave up a few minutes to a careful 
survey of her surroundings, and was disagreeably impressed with 
the tact that they save unmistakable tokens of taste and education, 
as well as of wealth. 1 aste as con e.ct as her own too. There w'ere 
one or two pieces of music on the open piano; she took them up 
and examined them — Chopin, Schumann, Gluck; she put them 
down. She read the titles of some of the books on the center table 
— Ruskio (this is not a tale of the present year) Tennyson, Keble, 
Carlyle, Emerson, Lyell. She looKed around at the pictures; she 
was not a bad judge. Everyone was a water color, and at that time 
the “ lot would have “ fetched eight hundred pounds; now-a- 
da 3 rs, fifteen hundred? She resumed her seat, and, for the first time 
since her husband’s death had made her the leader of Avonham, 
forgot that she had been kept waiting more than ten minutes. 

O foolish woman, consider! were you ever kept waiting ten 
minutes before? Is the sign nothing to you? away, away, fly and 
hide yourself, for evil is coming on you! 

No. the delay is nothing; the sign is hidden; she waits quietly 
and unsuspectingly in the drawing-room of her house and estate 
agent, and thinks of no evil, only waits for the door to open. 

She will see that door open and shut, once — twice — thrice, and 
after the third shutting there will be little peace or quietness for 
her in this world. In the next maybe — tor God is merciful — but in 
this world — No! 

The door opens. It is Mr. Bompas who enters. 

O foolish woman! did your servant ever look so grave, so solemn, 
so sad, before? Up and away, for evil is coming on you! Can you 
notread portents, you so clever, so guilty, so skilled in noting the 
looks and reading the hearts of men? 

No; he is a servant of other people; he looks grave over other 
men’s business; he has a pompous air with him alw ays— overdoes it 
sometimes — he is a faithful, honest upright man, with many affairs 
on his hands, enough to make him look important; this is no sign 
to the Queen of Avonham. She greets him laughingly, not heeding 
that he does not smile. 

“You did not expect to see me here, Mr. Bompas.” 

” No, madam, I did not. It is quite an unexpected — ah — ’um — 
visit.” 


Not ^pleasure, you see, you foolish woman! not the stereotyped 
phrase you near so often, in all sorts of country houses, where 
people brighten up at the sight of you; no, this is an unexpected 
msit. And the honest man who uses the word does not look as 
though it were a pleasuie at all. Oan you not see that he is strange 
in his manner? that mixed with his customary assumption of dig- 
nity — not so much of an assumption either, for he is an honored and 
an honorable man, and his manner is not so skiff-deep as you think 
—there is an under-current of pily struggling to come to the sur- 
face? No, this clever woman sees nothing! 

”1 will not detain you long, Mr. Bompas; you got the papers 
from Goldings and West?” ~ - 


A 



AS AYOK FLOWS. 199 

Mr Uouipas bowed in his stateliest manner, but did not trust 
himselt to speak. 

“ Ihe plans, ot course, are accepted as being quite correct,' ’ she 
said, in her queenly manner; “ you are always so correct in all that 
you do, Mr. Bompas. ” 

“ 1 trust, Mrs. —ah — Stanhope, that, whatever, may happen, you 
will always have the— ah — opinion that 1 have at all times acted — 
ah— conscientiously and straightforwardly to you.” 

” My dear Mr, Bompas,” she said, with a merry laugh, “what 
an asseveration. Any one would think that my second mairiage 
was to be the signal for my dispensing with your very valuable serv- 
ices. It is nothing of the sort, my dear sir; neither myself nor Mr. 
Rivers will ever forget the patience and skill with which you have 
watched over my affairs : and the upshot of our marriage, for you, 
will be, that you will have to manage two estates instead of one.” 

Mr. Bompas bowed again, and, for the first time in his life wished 
that he hadn’t a conscience. 

“By the bye,” said Mrs. Stanhope, “1 was sorry to hear that 
Miss Bompas was taken ill in church yesterday. 1 trust she is 
better.” 

“ She is perfectly well, Mrs. Stanhope, 1 thank you,” said Mr. 
Bompas gravely. 

“ A passing attack only,” said she; “lam very glad to hear it. 1 
have not seen her for some time. Is she at home, Mr. Bompas? 1 
should like to see her. Of course you understand what to do with 
the papers now that you have the lawyer’s letter. That was the 
only business 1 came about. Let me see Adelaide if she is really 
well enough.” 

“1 will send for her,” said Mr. Bompas, and rang the bell. 
“Will you tell Miss Adelaide that Mrs. Stanhope wishes to see 
her,” he said to the servant who answered it. 

Adelaide was close to the door, and on being spoken to by Jane 
entered. Mr. Bompas bowed to Mrs. Stanhope again, and went out 
of the room. Adelaide closed the door carefully, and advanced 
toward the chair in which Mrs, Stanhope was seated. 

The two women looked very firmly at each other. Mrs. Stanhope 
had not intended that it should be so. She had meant to kill Miss 
Bompas’s presumptuous mind with a stern gaze, to trample on its 
slain body with a few stinging sentences, and, having received a 
tearful submission, to magnanimously forgive her her audacity in 
daring to love. But she was met by a look as proud and high as 
her own; and a thought flashed across her, that whereas she had 
hitherto looked upon Adelaide as a merely pretty girl, she was in 
reality a beautiful one; as stately and commanding as herself, and, 
she added mentally as she took a second glance at the stern look 
and the set face, as strong and as insensible to fear. 

“ You wished to see me, Mrs. Stanhope?” said Adelaide. 

“ Yes, Adelaide,” said Mrs. Stanliope; “ 1 heard that you were ill 
in church yesterday, and as 1 was calling on your father on business 
1 thought 1 should like to know how you are to-day.” 

“ 1 was not ill in church yesterday, Mrs. Stanhope,” said Ade- 
laide, “ and 1 am quite well to-day. But it is very kind of you to 
take so much interest in me as to inquire. ’ 

Mrs, Stanhope laughed. 


200 


AS AYOl^ FLOWS. 


When young ladies leave church in a violent hurry,” she said, 
“neighbors naturally imagine that they are ill; or,” she added, 
“ that they have some other cause for their departure.” 

Adelaide laughed in her turn. 

“ If^ours is a beautiful system of generalization,” said she; “it 
takes very little wit and very little wisdom to divide mankind into 
two parts; tor instance, your t^o branches of young ladies, who 
leave church be3ause they are ill, and young ladies who leave for 
some other cause, would include all young ladies who go to church. 
In which of the two classes does it please you to place me?” 

Mrs. Stanhope, although in a great rage at this flippant answer, 
had sense enough not to show temper. The tone of the girl showed 
that there was something behind her speech. 

“ My dear Miss Bompas,” said she — she dropped the familiar 
“ Adelaide,” vhich the other did not fail to notice — “ do you know 
what people are saying^ about your conduct yesterday?” 

“ You meanjpeople in Avonham, of course, Mrs. Stanhope?” said 
Adelaide calmly. 

“Yes, people in Avonham,” said Mrs. Stanhope, rather sharply; 
“ and with Sir Headingly Cann at the head of them.” 

I^ow Mrs. Stanhope bad no right to bring the afiable baronet into 
the conversation at all, and she soon regretted that she had done so. 

“ Poor dear Sir Pleadingly!” said Adelaide, actually laughing at 
the revered man’s name; “ he is always on the wrong track. Yes, 
Mrs. Stanhope, 1 can tell you what people in Avonham are saying of 
me because 1 left church hurriedly yesterday. 1 will not allow you 
the gratification of informing me. They are saying that 1 was over- 
come b> the notice of your approaching marriage to Mr. Rivers; 
that is true — mark me, that is true!” 

Mrs. Stanhope smiled in scorn, but the uplifted hand of the young 
girl and the air of determination in her attitude stayed her speech. 

“ They are saying also that Walter Rivers has jilted me, and that 
that is the real cause of my agitation. That is not true! Mrs. 
Stanhope— Mr. Walter Rivers has twice asked me to become his 
wife, and twice 1 have refused him.” 

Mrs. Stanhope half rose to her feet, but Adelaide's gesture again 
stopped her. 

“ 1 foresaw your coming here to-day; 1 was ready for you, Mrs. 
Stanhope; you have been accustomed in the sphere in which you 
move to have many people at your feet. In Avonham especially, 
during the last eight or nine years, that has been so; it may be that 
you have been led to believe that you will always exist in that im- 
perial capacity. Do not let that idea possess you at all in your in- 
tercourse with me to-day. Remember that this meeting is of your 
seeking, not mine.” 

“ Y’ou are quite melodramatic. Miss Bompas,” said Mrs. Stanhope, 
but she did not say it easily; this girl had given her two sharp 
blows, be it remembered. “ Your visit to London has improved 
you immensely. Pray, since Mr. Walter Rivers is not good 
enough for your husband, may 1 inquire whether you expect to get 
married at all — to a gentlemanJ*^ 

“lam engaged to be married, Mrs. Stanhope, to a man whom I 


AS AYOK PLOWS. 201 

believe to be a gentleman in all that is gentle and all that is manly 
— Mr. flenry Galbraith/’ 

“I must congratulate you, Miss Bompas,'’ said Mrs. Stanhope. 
‘‘Mr. Galbraith must be a well-to-do man. Well, Miss Bompas, 
we have had quite a delightfail little quarrel; but although 1 have 
enjoyed it — you are really very graceful when you are roused, my 
dear — 1 am rather tired of it. Mr. Galbraith is away, 1 believe. I 
must write and congratulate him; you know we ha’\ e had some 
dealings together. You must keep your temper with him though, 
tor 1 have heard that he — What is it? what is it?’' i 

For Adelaide had suddenly clasped her in her arms, and held her 
as ‘hough sbielding her from some enemy. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Stanhope! don’t talk like that. Oh, do trust in me, 
and 1 will save you yet; we have quarreled to-day, but 1 swear to 
you that my woman’s heart bleeds for you. Oh, Mrs. Stanhope, go 
to London and leave me to meet them. You have been so good 
here — so kind to the poor^ — so different from — oh! do listen to me 
and do as 1 ask youf'’ 

“You are mad!” said Mrs. Stanhope, striving to free herself. 

“ No, not mad!’' said Adelaide, “ but a traitor to my husband 
that is to be. But 1 will intercede fdf you— indeed 1 will.” 

“For me! — intercede!” said the elder woman, no longer strug- 
gling with the girl. 

“ Yes, for you! Oh, Mrs. Stanhope! Harry — Mr. Qalbraith — is 
now on his way home from America. ” 

America!'* and she shrunk back to the girl’s arms, and the 
sound of the' word was as a cry. 

“Yes, America! and do you know who is coming with him?” 

“No, girl, no; what should 1 know of him or his affairs? Who 
is it who is coming?” ^ 

“ His brother!” 

“Brother! What is he to me? What is his name?” 

“Keginald Wilding!” 

“ Reginald — Reginald Wilding?” She tore herself from Ade- 
laide’s clasp and flung one arm back, as seeking for something; at 
last her hand reached a chair, which she grasped and held, warning 
Adelaide away with the other hand. Not a movement escaped 
Adelaide’s eye, not a sign of fear did she show as the woman raved. 

“Wilding! ha, ha! A fool! a fool! Francois shot him! Don’t 
bullets kill fools then? Fi^angois, mm cher, tu Vas tuc n'est cepasf 
Y^es, yes, at B^ton Rouge, and 1 crept out one night to try it I could 
see his dead fadb for the last— Y^ou lie, girl, he never loved you; 
you have told me lies. Francois! he is alive! gare d toi, mon cher. 

I am a governess, Mr. Stanhope, and should only disgrace— ah, my 
God! have 1 not striven to make amends?, Walter, we will ride 
them down and live them down, and you shall— God have mercy 
on me!” 

Adelaide laid her on the sofa, and restrained the struggling hands; 
then she rang the bell. 

* * * ^{> * # * 

When Mrs. Stanhope had been restored she was calm. The first 
effects of the blow having passed away, she became again the 
haughty proud woman she had always been. She looked keenly at 
Adelaide’s face as if to see whether she had betrayed her secret, but 


203 


AS AVON" FLOWS. ‘ 

there were no signs there. Mrs. Bompas was lost in wonder, and 
voluble in sympathetic phrases; it she had been silent and embar- 
rassed, there would have been danger. Mrs. Stanhope felt that she 
had still time left tor thought and action. She drank some wine, 
and would have sent for one of her servants but that Mr. Bompas 
insisted on. being allowed to see hePsately to the Priory House. 
She would walk, she told Mrs. Bompas, it wculd do her good; she 
had not had one of these attacks for years, and could not account 
for this one. So, resisting alKofters of being driven home, she left 
with Mr. Bompas, giving Adelaide a parting glance, half-terrified, 
half-defiant, as she went out of the door. 

They walked to the end of South Street, and were about to cross 
the market-place, when the din and murmur of a crowd broke on 
their ears. A body of men, followed by shouting boys and excited 
women, were bearing something on urough stretcher formed of two 
hurdles lashed togetner. Every minute the group increased in size, 
until when it reached where they stood it had attained the propor- 
tions of a crowd. And floating: in the air frorn the lips of halt the 
awe-stricken throng, came a word that none could remember to have 
heard in such a manner in the streets of Avonham — “ Murder!” 

‘‘"What is it, Mr. Bompas ?#\said Mrs. Stanhope, clinging to his 
arm; “ what are they saying?” 

” My dear madam^” said Mr. Bompas, ” 1 really do not ImOw, 
but we will let them pass by.” 

But ^he said it and the ghastly burden came opposite where they 
stood, mhy heard a name. Mrs. Stanhope broke from his arm with 
a wild cry and rushed forwaid. The bearers stopped as she did so. 

” What is it?”- she cried; ‘‘whose name did you say? Let me 
pass!” 

Her own coachman stood before her, and by the pale light of the 
lanterns carried by some of the men, she could see that his face was 
white, and that the tears were streaming down his cheeks. 

‘‘ For the love o’ God, my dear lady,” said he, gently restraining 
her, “ don’t ’eelook! it b’ain’t no sight tor ’ee, my poor dear soul. 
Mr. Bompas, sir, for marcy’s sake get her away home!” 

“ Let me pass, Weedon! Pinuiffer, stand on one side, 1 will see 
ill O my God! 

And a great sob broke from the breast of every man there as she 
knelt beside the figure and drew back the coarse piece of sacking 
that covered the head. 

The bloodless, waxen face, with the hair hanging about the fore- 
head, and wet and foul with the water and weed of Avon, was beau- 
tiful in death. The face of Walter Rivers. 

She gave no cry as she rose to her feet. Only those who caught 
her in their strong arms as she fell thought they heard her whisper 
something. Tliey did*not know the words; they were the words of 
Cain — “ My punishment is greater than I can bear!” 

Such of her own people as w^ere there took her away, and the dead 
body was borne oft. Mr. Bompas remained stunned at tne sight 
and news. Mechanically he made his way to where Pinnifter stood 
and laid his hand on his arm. 

“ Pinnifter, in the name of heaven what is this dreadful thing? 
What has happened?” 


AS AVOl^- FLOWS. 


203 


“ Dreadful indeed, Mr. Bompas,” replied the landlord of the 
Bear. “ A cheerful, kindly gentleman like Mr. Rivers shot 
down by a jealous beast— 1 don’t care who hears me say so— it«;« 
dreadful I’' * 

“ But,” said Mr. Bompas, ” is it known who did it?” 

‘‘ Known? Yes, Mr. Bompas, and 1 wish I’d the hanging of him; 
but he’s locked up safe enough, and it’s only a job for Calcratt.” 

‘‘ Who is it?” 

“ Who is it, Mr. Bompas? Why, that vicious, sulky, ill-tem- 
pered, domineering hound, Mr. Allred Shelman— d— n him! and 1 
wish I’d my hands on his throat this minute!” 

And the stalwart ex-soldier shouldered his- way aggressively 
through f he crowd and entered his ownliouse. 


CHAPTER XXYl. 
crowner’s quest law. 

Happy the man who, either by making interest with Mr. Pinnifler 
pr in virtue of his position in the town, obtained admission next day 
to the large upper room at the Bear, where the market ordinary 
was usually held, and which was now transformed into a coroner’s 
court. Every available foot of the room was occupied. It Was a 
large apartment, running along the whole front of the house, was 
built partly over the old gateway, and had, no doubt, in bygone days 
served as the great guest-chamber of the hospitium of the abbey. ‘Its 
windows looked nut on the market place; and the long table, at 
which sat the coroner and the jury, was placed so that the coroner 
was immediately beneath the center one. This was of great advan- 
tage to the crowd who were unable to obtain admission, as they could 
see the back of his head, and that was something. Besides, they 
had had the opportunity of accompanying the jury as they walked 
down the length of the town to Sir Headingly Cana’s house to view 
the body, and also of marching back with them. 

The jury was composed of fourteen’of the worthiest burgesses of 
Avonham. The mayor, Mr. Sennett, was intrusted with the task 
of watching the case of Alfred Shelman, who was in the room in 
custody. Many acquaintances of ours were members—Raraty, 
Chickleholt, Foil well, the brothers Pye, Pollimoy, Timothy Rapsey 
(who had specially entreated the inspector of police to select him), 
Killett, and six others with whom our tale has had nothing to do. 
Mr. Bompas was present, but was a spectator only, and to judge by 
Jiis face a deeply grieved one. When the coroner bade the jury 
choose tneir foreman, there was a pause; if Timothy Rapsey had 
been elected he Would have died happy, but no mention was made 
of his name. At last ex-Mayor Killelt said, “ Mr. Follwell’s the 
ageuest of us — Mr. Follwell, will you act, sir?” and Mr. Follwell 
consenting, the others said, ” Ah, yes, Mr. Follwell, do you act, 
sir,” and the thing was done. Mr. Follwell ^d his brother jury- 
men were duly sworn, and the inquiry opened. 

The coroner briefly remarked that they had assembled there on an 
inquiry of more than usual interest, and one of the most painful 
nature. He then called the first witness, Sir Headingly Cann, 


204 


AS AYOlSr FLOWS. 

It did not need a second look at the old baronet’s face to learn the 
terrible grief that had overtaken him. He had steeled himself, how- 
ever, and controlled his sorrow to give evidence. 

He identified the body as that of his nephew, Walter Cann Kivers, 
aged thirty. He last saw the deceased alive at lunch on the preced- 
ing day; he was then in his usual health; he next saw him when 
his dead body was brought home. He knew of no enmity existing 
between the deceased and any other person likely to have led to the 
murder. 

Sheiman stood up here, and In a firm voice said, “ Sir Headingly, 
your nephew and 1 had qi^arreled, but before God 1 swear that 1 
never shot him!” 

The coroner begged him. to be silent. . He was represented, and 
had better trust himself to bis legal adviser. Any statement he made 
might be used against him. 

The next witness was a laboring man named Jacob Starer, who 
was much impressed by the surroundings, and called the coroner 

my lord.” His story was extracted from him with some difficulty, 
owing to his confusion, but finally turned out to be this: He was 
returning from work, and was making for a foot-bridge across the 
river, over which he had to pass to get to his home; about five min- 
utes before he reached this, the lime being about three o’clock, he 
heard two shots fired in quick succession. He thought it curious,, 
as they came from the banks of the stream, and the afternoon was 
misty and it was foggy near the river, but concluded that someone 
was after water-rats. A few yards before he reached the bridge 
his foot struck something which proved to be a hat. Naturally 
surprised, he hunted about to see if he could explain its presence 
there, and looking over the bridge saw a dark object in the water. 

He climbed down the high bank and found the deceased, who was 
lying head downward in the river, his face and head being under 
water; he dragged him out and got him on to the bank, and, being 
greatly alarmed, shouted for help. Some persons came from a 
neighboring mill, and having helped him to take the body indoors, 
sent for the police. He thought deceased was quite dead when he 
found him. So much from Jacob, got with vast trouble, but evi- 
dently true. 

The next witness was a more important oneK. He was assistant to 
a grocer in Avonham, and was named Lightfdot. He stated that 
on the preceding afternoon he Was out collecting accounts for his 
master, and had to call at the mill. On the bridge over which he 
crossed were the deceased and Mr. Sheiman; they were quarreling 
violently, Mr, Sheiman had a double-barreled gun with him. It 
was not in his hand, but leaning against the railing of the bridge. 

As he came up he heard Mr. Sheiman say, “ Curse you! if 1 thought 
you had any hand in that 1 would put a bullet into you!” He was 
quite, sure of the words, and would swear to them. 

The silence in the room was almost painful. It was broken only 
by the voices of the coroner and witness, a fresh-colored young man 
of good reputation, well known in the town. He gave his evidence 
clearly enough but®With evident distaste for the task. 

Mr. Rivers had replied, he said further, “ Haven’t you had enough 
of fighting lately?” Mr. Sheiman at that flew into a great rage, # 


AS AVOK PLOWS- 


205 


and lie lliought would have struck Mr. Elvers if he (witness) had 
not come up. He spoke to the gentlemen; he said, “ Hear me, gen- 
• tlemeii!” He knew thein both. Mr. Eivers laughed at him, but 
Mr. Shelman told' him to go (somewhere) and mind his own business. 
Mr. Rivers then said, “ See what an exhibition yon are making of 
yourself; the fellow is quite right to speak, and you are a fool with 
all your threats and bluster!” Mr. Shelman had flown into a violent 
passion, and had threatened to kick him if he did not go on. Heing 
afraid to meddle with anyone of Mr. Shelman’s standing, he left 
them and went on to the mill. Before he got there he heard two 
shots. They came from the bridge. The afternoon was foggy, and 
it w'as very thick near the river; you could only see a few yards 
ahead, say twenty — about a cricket-pitch — but he could tell tromAhe 
sound. When he had been to the mill, and the miller’s wife had 
paid him her bill for a month’s groceries, he was coming away, when 
he heard shouting. He and one of the mill -hands ran to the bridge, 
and found the last witness holding the deceased. The gun produced 
was the one he saw on the bridge; he knew it to be Mr. Shelman’s; 
he had once bron^t it from Avonham Road, at the request of Mr. 
Shelman. 

Next a policeman proved finding the gun in the bed of the river 
close to the scene of the murder; he had recovered it that morning; 
it was in the center of the stream, which there was shallow, and he 
could see it from the bank. 

Then the doctor described the state of the body and the fatal 
wounds. Death must have ensued directly, and was caused by the 
shots, not by drowning. 

The inspector of police proved arresting Mr. Shelman the night 
before. He was at home; he was highly indignant, and violent in 
manner. He had cautioned him in the usual manner, and he had 
strongly protested his innocence. 

The case looked very black, in spite of this protestation. The 
coroner asked Mr, Sennett if he or his client wished to make any 
statemeni, and Mr. Sennett shook his head. Shelman, however, 
rose again to his feet, and spoke loudly and clearly, but with visible 
passion, 

” 1 claim my right to speak.” 

“ What you say may be used against you, Mr. Shelman,” said the 
coroner ‘‘You had better be guided by your solicitor; you are in 
verv good hands.” 

Mr. Boldham and Mr. Sennett both endeavored to persuade him 
to be still, but in vain. 

“ 1 will speak,” he exclaimed; ” 1 am perfectly innocent of thi^ 
crime. It is. quite true that we quarreled upon the bridge; but 1 
swear before God 1 had no hand in his death. 1 left him on the 
bank of the river by the bridge. 1 came away liurriedly, being very 
angry, and left my gun behind. 1 do not know- how it came in the 
water. 1 swear 1 did not kill Walter Rivers, nor have 1 any knowl- 
edge of how he met his death!” 

Fifty heads were shaken over this statement, and hot a man in the 
room believed it. The coroner turned to Mr. Sennett, and asked if 
he had any desire to address the court. Mr. Sennett had" none; ho 
would reserve all defense at present, he said. 

The suDiming up was short, and the jury withdrew, really more 


206 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 

for form than because their minds were not made up: when they re- 
turnea in five minutes’" time it could be seen by their faces what their- 
verdict was. It was soon made known— •“ Willful murder against 
Alfred Shelman.” 

-A larger crowd than Avonhara had seen since the election waited 
outside the police-station to see the prisoner. driven ofi; to Rid2:etown 
Jail in a closed carriage* and in strong custody. There were no 
harsh words or strong expressions used by the crowd, and there was 
almost complete silence when the carriage, driven by a police officer, 
set out; but when the townsfolk had watched it out of sight there 
brake out on every hand words of pity for the victim and the wom- 
an who was to have been his wife, now, as her servants reported, 
stricken down by uncontrollable grief, and tierce execrations against 
Shelman. 

In all that town, where he had been so powerful and so masterful ; 
among all those people who six months ago would have been proud 
to have a word thrown to them in the market-place, there was not 
one to stand forward and sa5^onn good \vord tor him. They recalled 
his overbearing manners, they told of his bursts of temper, they spoke 
with fierce glee of tire thrashing he had received but the other day 
in the face of the town, and they cursed him loudly and deeply as a 
cowardly and brutal murderer for whom hanging was too good. 

And the man was innocent after alll 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

'‘THE AVONHAM MUKDER.” 

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!” said old Mas’r Killett, laying down the 
London paper, which, in virtue of his patriarchal position in the 
town, was always placed at his elbow before other eyes (except per- 
haps Pinniffer’s) had seen it; "all the years l’ve*a-lived in Avon- 
ham, I’ve never bin ashamed of it afore; an’ now look what’t has 
come to. Drat it it it ain’t a hard thing for the oldest man in the 
place — ’ceptin* pThaps old Daddy Prosser’s father, and nobody 
don’t count much p’ how old he says a be — if he can’t pick up the 
paper for a bit o’ quiet’ read-like but what he must have ‘ Ih’ Avon- 
ham Murder ’ stuck right afore hg ej^es. Oh, dear! what a disgrace 
for ray poor old native place! Do ’ee take the paper now, Mas’r 
Matley; I can’t abide ’un.” 

And the old fellow took off his heavy silver-rimmed spectacles, 
wiped thfem carefully, and then performed the like office for his eyes, 
filled his pipe. and. puffed away to get a tight from the burning spill 
which his dutiful son held for him. according to custom. Then he 
leaned back in his seat and sighed heavily. He was not the only old 
inhabitantof Avonham who felt keenly the disgrace that had so sud- 
denly come on the town. 

'The murder which had roused such a sense of horror and indig- 
nation in the quiet Marlshire town had been committed on the after- 
noon of Monday; the inquest, from the fact of the coroner for North 
Marlshire residing just outside Avonham and thus being close at 
hand, had been held on the following day, Tuesday; it was now 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 20 ? 

Friday, but only a little market day,” and the funeral was fixed 
for the morrow. From the time that the body of W alter Kivers had 
been brought into the town until now, the place had worn a somber 
and funereal aspect. With the great bulk of people the unfoitunate 
victim had been extremely popular. Especially during the last two 
or three years he had laid himself out to be pleasing and well thought 
of; and that he had succeeded was fully shown now: on all sides 
nothing but good was said of this dead man. To-morrow there 
would be such a concourse at the funeral as the town had never seen; 
tnere was more than ordinary attraction ; dn addition to the sorrow 
and respect which would have been shown if the young man had 
died the ordinary death of men, there were the surroundings wdiich 
would draw the spectator into the region of the horrible. Meanwhile 
the wiser heads of the town grieved themselves sorely over the scan- 
dal that had befallen it, and Master Killett’s desponding words found 
an echo in many hearts. 

The cronies had not met for two or three nights, but gregarious- 
ness is strong, and they had come together again, naturally and be- 
cause the doings of the morrow must be debated with all solemnity, 
and also because it was not usual for them to be separated at a time 
when the air was full of events and the very walls had rumors in 
them. So they were sitting to-night, not in the club room, for it was 
not club niglit, but, much as they were wont to sit on ordinary 
nights, in the smoking room. One or two farmers from the neigh- 
borhood were there, in addition to the usual lownsfathers; they had 
an excellent excuse ready for such of their wives as had not them- 
selves come in to learn all the news. A good many /iad,^and Mrs. 
Pinniffer's teapots and toasting forks had had a busy time of it. 

Every man wdio came in did so with a subdued and gloomy air; 
the customary greetings were given %oUd ifoce; no mention was made 
of the weather or the land; the price of beasts was ignored, and 3^et 
no one approached the subject which every one had at heart. Some 
one was wanted to fire the train, and the JSTestor of Avonham did it. 

Reuben Matley took the paper handed to him by the old man, and, 

‘ himself, shook his head sympathetically. 

It may be noticed here that there were some absentees. Kotwith- 
slanding that the B'^ar was very often the settling-plahe for him 
and his clients on market day, Mr. .Bompas was not present to-day.^ 
Mr. Sennett, as every one knew, was in London, and all knew the 
business fhat took him there. Raraty would send to meet him to 
the last train calling at Avonham Road that night. Dr. Mompesson, 
Avho often smoked a pipe there after market day, was also absent. 
It was understood that the state of Mrs. Stanhope gave him much 
anxiet^^ and that be bad almost taken up his abode at the Priory 
Hou^e". All Avonham was filled with sympathy for his patient, 
and those of lier household who came out into the town were eager- 
ly questioned as to her progress. 

Mr. Timothy Rapsey was in his element, but not quite at his ease. 
There was only one point on which he was troubled, but that one 
point was enough to cause him some mental discomfort. He feared 
that his revelations respecting the riot had reached Rivers' ears and 
had led to the murder. However, public opinion had iiol pointed 


208 AS AVOiT FLOWS. 

that way, and he was somwhat relieved. He took up Mas’r Kil- 
lett’s parable as the latter put away his paper. 

“ ’Tis a great disgrace to us all, for sure,” said he; ” Mr. Matley, 
read us out a bit of it; what do the London folk think about it? 
Do they think there’s any cause for it? What do they think was 
the reason of ’t? Be they goin’ to have it tried at Ridgetown, or 
be they goin’ to take it up to London? Lor’! I’ll go if they do; that 
Iwill!” ^ , 

” What need for ’em to take it up to London, Timothy ?” said 
Killett the younger, and his voice had a shade of -aggressiveness in 
it; ” ’tain’t come to such a pass yet but what a Marlshire jury can 
try a Marlshire murder, 1 do hope!” 

“There have been cases where it has been done, Killett,” said 
Timothy, “ on account of prejudice, you know,” 

“ What do ’ee mean by prejudice now, Timothy?” said Killett; 
“ agenst the prisoner?” 

“Yes, 1 do: I’ve read o’ cases where it have been said as a man 
couldn’t get a fair trial in ’s own county, and they’ve took it into 
another. Why wouldn’t they do it with Mr. Shelman?” 

“ He can get all the fair trial as he do want without goin’ out o’ 
Marlshire, 1 reckon, ’ ’ said Killett. 

“ No one seems to know the cause of the quarrel,” said Wolsten- 
holme Pye. 

“No,” said Hoppenner Pye, chiming in as usual, “ no one don’t 
seem to know that.” 

Timothy Rapsey laid down his pipe solemnly on the table, then 
took a moderate pull at his glass, and leaning forward, raised his 
finger impressively, and sat wagging it backwards and forwards in 
the face of the company. This was a well-known sign in Avonham, 
and betokened, even in Timothy, the possession of information 
peculiarly valuable, or the intention of delivering something unusu- 
ally weighty or oracular. So, when the assembled party saw this 
portent, they preserved decorous and attentive silence and listened 
€agerl 3 ^ No one thought very much of Timothy’s opinions, but 
there was no doubt as to his ability and industry in collecting facts 
and rumors. 

“ 1 remember,” he said, “ ah, just so well as if it were yesterday, 
in this very room, just when the election doin’s first come up, being 
fook very much to task for that very thing. Now, Pinniffer, 1 can 
mind 5 ^ou of it for this very reason, if fm no other; there was a 
partv sitting in this room, just where you’re a- sitting now, Mr, 
Pye^’’ 

Mr. Pye looked grave— it was 'Wolstenholme— as though he were 
suddenly made personally responsible for the doings and sayings of 
a person imknown, but of whom it was possible he might not ap- 
prove. His brother looked grave too. 

“ That party,” pursued Mr. Rapsey, greatly gratified by the atten- 
tion which was being paid to his remarks, “ was no less and no 
more, no other and no one else but — who do yon think?” 

The compam^ had been so impressed by Mr. Rapsey’s affidavit- 
like form of sjpeech, that when he wound up with a question, not 
to say a conundrum, instead of a statement, they were incensed; in 
particular, old Mas’r Killett, who had followed the speaaer with all 


AS AVOK PLOWS. 


J^09. 

the care that both the gravity of the occasion, and what Mrs. Thrale 
would describe as a “ warning;’' in the shape of a little deafness in 
company demanded, turned snappishly on him. 

“ Od rot the caddlesome man!” he cried; ‘‘ why ever don’t a say 
what a’ve got to say, ’stead o’ messin’ about wi* a lot o’ cross-ques* 
tions an’ crooked answers? Who, in the name o’ patience, were it?” 

”Lor’! bless me, Mas’r KillettI” said Timothy, greatly startled, 
“don’t ’ee be angry, sir; ’twas Mr. Galbraith, sir; that’s who 
’twas.” 

“ Coming home to-morrow,” said Christopher Raraty, taking his 
pipe out of his mouth and casting the sentence to the company, not 
with any reference to the subject in hand, but as a morsel of general 
and interesting news. 

Timothy Rapsey, in his eagerness for information, quite forgot 
old Mas’r Killett’s crossness, and almost the topic 4m which- he had 
been speaking. 

“LorM” he said, “cornin’ home to-morrow, is he? if it’s a fair 
question, who told ’ee, Mr. Raraty?” 

“Mr. Bryceson,” answered Christopher; “I’ve got to send a 
carriaire to meet him and a cart for his big luggage.” 

“Cornin’ home to-morrow, is he?” said Rapsey again; “he’s 
been away a power of a time, hasn’t he? 1 wonder, now, w’here on 
earth an’ all he’s been to?” 

“You were going to tell us some tale or other about him just 
now,” growled Barnabas Chickleholt, from behind his pipe, “ but 1 
doubt it’s all fled' out of your head — if ’twere ever in there.” 

“ ’Tis true tiiat, Mas’r Rapsey,” said a burly farmer, laughing at 
the very sound of his own jesting voice; “ you do want more bnng- 
gwain * in a tale than any man 1 ever seed; for sure you do!” 

. Timothy loijked rather abashed, and laughed a little dry, nervous, 
single kno( k kind of laugh. 

“’Twas your fault, Raraty,” he said; “you interrupted me, 
light in the middle. ” 

“1 didn’t,” said Raraty; “’twas you skipped away; but, lor’ 
sakes, go on now, man. ” 

T'hus adjured, Timothy, resuming his former important attitude 
and gesture, proceeded. 

“ ’Tw'as one raornin’ when Mr. Galbraith was sitting where Mr. 
Pye is now ; we were all on to the ’lection news, and it was said in 
this very room that what folk looked to see was Sir Headingly giv- 
ing up his seat to poor Mr. Rivers. ‘ Then,’ says Mr. Raraty, 
‘you’d ’a’ seen Mr. Shelman putting up against him.' What was it 
1 said then? Now, Mrs. Pinnifier, j^ou must remember it, an’ how 
sharp you w^as on me for saying of it. 1 said as there was one thing 
as young men ’ud quarrel over sooner than anything, and — ” 

“1 know ye did, Mr. Rapsey,” said Mrs. Pinnitfer, advancing 
from the shadow oi the little bar, and standing in its doorway. “ 1 
remember it very well, and I mind what 1 said, and, come to look 
at it all round, perhaps 1 might go so far as to say, now, as^ypu 
were right and 1 was wrong over it. 1 only say perhaps, mind, for 


* Helping, or accompanying on the road. laterally, bringing-going. 


210 AS AVO^r FLOWS. 

1 think, as Mr. Chickleholt said that day, you were too fast in your 
talk, Mr. Eapsey, an’ I think you are4oo fast now.” 

Mr. Rapsey stared. 

“ Why, Mrs. Pinniffer?” he said in an injured tone; “ wasn’t I 
right?” 

“Right or wrong, Mr. Rapsey, 1 don’t say,” replied Mrs. Pin- 
nitfer resolutely; “ but fast you were, and fast you are.” 

Pinnifier, whose face had expressed much gratification when his 
wife "had admitted the possibility of her having been in the wrong 
for once, now shook his head and chuckled. 

“ Well,” said Rapsey, a little crest-fallen, but not much, for his 
belief in himself was great, “ whatever you may think. I’ll maintain 
and stick to it as 1 named that day— at least, not named, because 1 
mind saying I hadn’t named no names, but 1 pointed out that day 
the cause of the quarrel between those two young men.” 

No one openly supported Timothy, but those who had been pres- 
ent when the little man had been “ put down ” b}^ Mrs. Pinnifier 
felt in their hearts that he waa right. Perhaps even Mrs. Pinniffer 
felt so too, and would not have made any reply; indeed, a storm 
might have been averted fiom Timothy Rapsey’s head but for the 
presence in the smoking room of ^n inquisitive farmer to whom this 
conversation was all Greek. 

This man lured the little chatterbox to his fate by the simplest 
and most natural question possible. 

“ An’ what were that, Mr. Rapsey,” said he cheerily and loudly, 
and felt that he had done society a service. 

Timothy rushed on his fate by degrees. 

“ What’s the cause o’ half the quarrels in thie world?” he said, 
with a grin. 

“ Well.” said the farmer, still cheerily, and looking round for 
approbation, “ ’tis a w'oman, nine times out o’ ten they do say! Ha! 
ha! ha!” So old and crushed a joke demanded his own laughter, 
but he was unaccompanied. 

“Yes,” said Timothy, “you’re right, and that was so in this 
case, ^th in love with the same woman.” 

Pinnifier looked soraew^hat anxiously at his wife. That good lady 
had friends at the Priory House, and was a known partisan of that 
mansion; but this time she was silent. She may have given a 
spileful glance at Timothy, and her tongue may have been very 
close to her lips, but she did not speak. It was jiot at her hands 
that Timothy was to receive his reproof. John Rann had been 
fidgetting about in his chair for the last few minutes, evidently with 
something on his mind, and he now broke forth. 

“ What a mischievous, mischief -making man you are, Rapsey!” 
he said in a tone of great wrath. “ Drat it ail, ye might leave the 
poor woman alone in her trouble for a bit, mightn’t ye? 1 never 
saw such a man. ” 

“ I’m not saying anything against her, John Rann,” cried Timo- 
thy; “ Pm sure i’m as sorry tor Her as a man can be! 1 didn’t say 
it was' "her faulty did 1?” 

“ lAex fault!" lepeated Rann in a tone of great scorn, “ her fault! 
no, you didn’t say it was, and 1 hope you’ve got too much sense for 
it. Fault! If you come to fault-finding, and want to lay faults on 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 211 

people^s shoulders, I’ll join ye. You’ve had your say, Timothy 
Rapsey, and now I’ll have mine. I’ll tell ye one or two things as 
’ll perhaps astonish ye. First and foremost,” said the sturdy little 
partisan, bringing down his hand on the table with a slap that made 
Timothy jump, ‘‘I don’t belie'^e, and 1 won'thQliQYQ till he con- 
fesses it,* that Mr, Shelman did the murder at all — ” ' 

To say that the company stared would be to use a feeble word, 
and one entirely useless for describing the expression of features 
that every one in the room put on. 

— and secondly. I’ll say to your face, Timothy Rapsey— and 1 
don’t mak^ no bones about it neither — that, whether Mr. Shelman 
did It or not, it was as much your fault as any one’s 1” 

Whack! came Mr. John Rann's hand down again on the table, 
and he stared triumphantly round on the most astounded set of faces 
he had ever seen. " 

It is a mercy that Wolstenholme Pye did not put into effect a 
wild notion which flew through his astonished brain, and that was 
to hang Timothy Rapsey at once and without any trial but a Ijyd- 
ford one, T^hich had its advantages, although fcriminals were preju- 
diced against it, for if he had formulated his idea, he would, most 
certainly, have been backed up by his brother, and the execution 
once 'moved and seconded, it is a matter of considerable question 
whether public feeling at that moment would not have been strong 
enough to have insured its being carried out. Pinniffer’s military 
instincts might have induced him to suggest a drum-head court- 
martial, buf it is doubtful. 

Fortunafely, Wolstenholme Pye, whatever his ideas were, was too 
much paralyzeJ to enunciate them, and the moment passed. 

But the shock on the assembled cronies was a great one. Old 
Mas’r Killett couldn't jump as well as he used, but he jumped a 
good deal; Barnabas Chickleholt, who was given to breakiog pipes 
in moments of excitement, accomplished a ” best on record,” and 
broke his churchwarden into more pieces than he could have 
counted; ex-Mayor Killett, w^ho would not have harmed a hornet, 
kicked the cat half-way across, the room — spasmodically, of course. 
Mr. Beadlemore Arto poured the whole of his gin-and-waier over 
his legs, ^nd Pinniffer rang the bell sharply, and without the least 
occasion. The rest of the company were affected in divers ways, 
and Timothy Rapsey’s face could not have turned more ashy-white 
if he had known of Wolstenholme Pye’s wild thought aud feared 
immediate action on it. 

The first one in the room to recover was the cat. That sagacious 
beast went out and sat in the bar. 

Then the nobler animals gradually came to. 

1 here is no portrait extant which represents the Emperor Napoleon 
Bonaparte menacing the Allied Powers with a minatory long clay 
pipe; but Rann, had he been painted sitting as he sat during this 
period of amazement, would have approached the presentment of 
that majestic figure as nearly as possible. The Powers in his case 
were represented by the person of Mr. Timothy Rapsey, who quailed 
before the stern gaze. Certainly no foreign potentate could have 
terrified him more than did the market-clerk of Avonham. Some 
reply was, however, indispensable; and as soon as he was able to 


212 


Ar ATOK FLOWS. 


articulate, lie gasped out his remonstrance in the form of supplica- 
tion and question. 

“Good Lor’ ’a’ mercy on us all, Mr. John Rann!” said he; 
“ what ever in the world do ’ee mean?’’ 

“ Mercy on usl’’ said Beadlemore Arto, wiping his legs; “ what 
a dreadful thing to say, Mr. Rann!” 

“ I mean it,” said Rann. “ Now look here, Rapsey; who was it 
stirred up all the strife and mischief when that gentleman at the 
Coombes and Mr. Shelman had that row outside? Why, youl” 

Mr. Rann whacked the table again. 

“ Now, as it happens,” he resumed, “ 1 know the rights o’ that. 
Yoq took your money out o’ the bank—” 

“ 1 was told to,” interrupted Rapsey; “ that weren’t my fault at 
all.” 

“ It weren’t your fault at all?” said Mr. Rann excitedly; “ yes, 
it were your fault at all, and no one else’s; you go a-talking to Mr. 
Galbraith’s servant about Mr. Galbraith’s windows being broke, as. 
if his windows were more than any one else’s; next thing you seem 
to make up your mind as that aftair, and indeed all the whole riot 
was got up by our side, with Mr. Shelman ai the head of it. Pretty 
charge to bring 1 Then comes what you call being told to take your 
money out of the bank. Of course you were told. i)o you think a 
bank’s going to stand your scandalizing one of its chief partners? 
Do you think the bank wants your dirty money?’' 

Mr. John Rann banged his open hand on the table again, and 
made the glasses dance; the company looked as though Mr. Rap- 
sey’s money were really a disgrace to him, and its possession a 
species of crime. 

“ What’s the cause of Parson Carter’s son leaving Bom pas?” re- 
sumed the peppery market-clerk; “ you and nobody else! Oh, you 
needn’t trouble j^ourselt to deny it; 1 know all about it, never mind 
how. You’re going to say that Carter was attacking Mr. Galbraith’s 
house, aren’t you? Hadn’t that blown over? 1 don’t know much 
of Mr. Galbraith, nor of Mr. Bryceson either; but I do know this, 
that they wouldn’t have said another word about the matter more 
than they said to Bompas and Mr. Millard if ’t hadn’t been for you. 
You’ve stirred up bad blood all round with your nasty, inquisitive, 
prying, tattling ways, and now, you’re not satisfied!” 

“Tut, tut! dear heart alive, Mr. Rann!” muttered ex-Mayor 
Killett, “ don’t ’ee now go on so at ’un.” 

“ Let him deny it if ^taint true!” urged the sturdy and solitary 
partisan of the unfortunate Shelman; -i- look at that row wi’ Mr. 
Shelman and Mr. Bryceson. I don’t say who were right, 1 don’t say 
who were wrong; but ’twere all his fault. I’ve always stood by 
Mr. Shelman, and 1 always shall. I don’t believe as he’ve a done 
this murder no more than 1 believe old Daddy. Prosser’s father done 
it; but whoever done it, it was through bad blood stirred up in 
Avonham such as never was stirred up afore, and all through you, 
Timothy Rapsey. You’m an old neighbor o’ mine, and I’ve alius 
wished you well; and if this here affair don’t foiever stop you from 
meddlin’ wi’ other folks’ affairs, and don’t keep that tongue o’ yours 
quiet behind your teeth, you take a neighbor’s friendly advice and 
goo home and cut ’un off!” 


AS AVO]sr FLOWS. 


218 


Old Daddy Prosser’s father couldn’t do noo muider,” said old 
Mas’r Killett scornfully, as the orator stopped to drink; “can’t 
scarcely hobble to’s front door of a sunny day, a can’t.” 

“ And now,” said Rann, as he laid down his empty glass and rose 
from his seat, “ now ’lis all to be put down to a lady as can’t help 
herself, and ain’t here to answer to it. Well, I’ll leave all my 
neighbors here to judge it I haven’t answered for her. Them as 
live in glass houses shouldn’t throw no stones, Mas’r Rapseyl” and 
giving the little man no opportunity to reply, even if he had had the 
inclination, which he hadn’t, the champion ot the absent left the 
room without exchanging greetings with any one. 

Mr. Timothy Rapsey did not remain long alter him. Although 
it was felt that Mr. Rann’s partisanship and eKcitement were more 
the cause of his outbreak than any facts he had accumulated, yet the 
situation was decidedly’ uncomfortable for Timothy, and the flavor 
seemed to have gone out of his tobacco all at once. He stood his 
ground for a little while, however, but soon departed, leaving his 
character behind him. 

Mr. Rann’s speech, and the subject of the murder generally, had 
been pretty well threshed out, and two or three of the outlying 
farmers had driven away, when the lessening circle was increased by 
Doctor Mompesson, who had not been seen for a day or two. When 
he was seated, Mr. Beadlemore Arto, after a little meditative puffing 
at his pipe, asked : 

“ How’s Mrs. Stanhope, Doctor? Poor thing, I suppose she’s 
terribly upset over this horrid affair.” 

Doctor Mompesson seemed unusually grave; he shook his head. 

“Very bad, very bad,” he said; “very diflacult case;” and he 
continued shaking his head as he lit his cigar. 

“ I’m sorry for that, doctor,” said Pinniffer, speaking amidst a 
general murmur of regret; “ 1 thought the poor lady seemed to 
have been driven half wild by the shock on Monday night. Dear 
heart, 1 don’t wonder at it. I’m sure we all feel it keen enough, 
and what must her state of mind be, poor thing!” 

The doctor made no verbal reply ; he nodded his head in appre- 
ciation of Pinniffer’s sympathy with his patient, and went on grave- 
ly pulling at his cigar; usually he would chat cheerily enough to 
any one. but to-night there was evidently something on his mind, 
and notliing could make him speak except in monos 5 dlables. Soon 
the conversation dried up altogether. John Rann’s outbreak on the 
'one hand, and the serious condition of Mrs. Stanhope on the other, 
acted as a damper on the spirits of every one in the room. The rest 
of the farmers wended their way homeward. Old Mas’r Killett and 
his dutiful son went home together, and still the doctor sat quietly 
smoking until at last he was left alone with Pinnifier. That worthy 
was not naturally garrulous; he was all things to all men in the 
talking line, as every good host should be, and would chat and gos- 
sip with a talking customer, or placidly smoke with a thinking one, 
just as the case might be, and put it all down in the day’s work. 
He sat puffing away opposite the doctor for some time, until that 
worthy, who had sat with an empty glass before him for some time, 
and had been apparently oblivious ot the fact that he had emptied 
it, stretched out his hand, groped for it a moment or two, raised it 


214 AS AYOK T’LOWS. 

toward his lips, stayed his hand before the glass reached his rdouth, 
looked into the tumbler as though it were a vessel of surpassing in- 
terest which ho had never seen befoie, say a Druidical punch bowl, 
kept his eyes fixed on it for a minute, and then gave a short sigh 
and woke to a sense of the surroundings. He looked over at Pin- 
niffer and laughed. 

“ Going oft to sleep, 1 think,” he said; “ some more sherry and 
cold water, Pinnifter.” 

This being supplied him, he sipped it once or twice, nodded ap- 
proval, and settled himself for a quiet chat. Pinnifter told him the 
news of Rann’s attack on Rapsey, to which he listened attentively, 
as though waiting to hear some statement that would clear up a 
doubt in his mind. Rot finding one in the landlord’s narrative, he 
shook his head again. 

Bad job,” he said, “bad job all round. Rann may be right; 
Rann may be wrong. Rapsey is a chattering little magpie, as every 
one knows, but 1 never knew any harm of him, and 1 think the 
matter is rather exago:erated. But I’ll tell you one thing, Pinnifter,” 
said the doctor as he threw away the end of his cigar: “ when we 
have buried that poor young fellow to-morrow, ay, and when the 
law has exacted its penalty from — whomsoever did kill him, when 
all that is past and done with, we shall hear something in this place 
that’ll make the ears of every man that hears it tingle. Take the 
advice of an old friend, Pinnifter, my boy; don’t encourage any 
scandal of that sort; put it down quietly— you know how, but put 
it down. 1 don’t know what it is, and if I did, 1 am not at liberty 
to say, but I’m sure as 1 can be that something is coming on people 
in this town that we shall all be very sorry to see and hear of; 
good-night, I-^innifter, and remember what 1 Irave said.” 

And the good old man, whose voice betokened the pain of his 
mind, went away, leaving behind him a very much puzzled host 
and hostess. For Mrs. Pinnifter had heard every word. 

“ What does doctor mean, Pinnifter?!’ said she to her husband 
when the doctor had gone. 

“1 don’t know,” said the ex-fusilier, “ and what’s more, my 
dear,” he added firmly, “ I’m not going to try to find out. There 
never was any good came of meddling with great folk for either 
soldier or publican. So I’m just going to keep my house open and 
my mouth shut, and let them as likes it caddie over other people’s 
aftairs, ’ ’ 

“ And the best way too,” decided his trusty helpmeet. 

Doctor Mompesson walked home revolving many things in his 
mind. 

What parson or priest hears what the doctor hears? Mrs. Stan- 
hope had been in delirium; and though Dr. Mompesson did not un- 
derstand the whole of them, and could not place them together in 
proper order, he had heard some terrible things as he sat by her 
bedside. 




AS AVOiq- PLOWS, 


215 


CHAPTER XXVlll. 

THE FOOTFALL OF NEMESIS. 

As if to mock the sorrow of the town, the sun rose glorious next 
morning, and made merry all the day. His first business was to dis> 
pel the hoar-frost that had gathered thickly on every twig and spray 
and blade, and to drive away the fog that Avon threw up. This 
he did patiently, devoting an hour to it and finishing his task com- 
pletely and in a workman-like manner. After that, he gav6 up his 
mind to bhing a bright jolly winter sun, and seemed inclined to 
assert that if he did not often shine on Avohham in winter, yet he 
could do so if he chose, and could make a November morning as 
bright and brilliant as any summer day of them all. What if he 
shone on a sad and mourning town? He took no heed of that, but 
gilded the streets and darted a ray of light through every crevice in 
shutter or blind that he could discover, and entered everywhere he 
could, preaching of a life that takes no heed of death, to those who 
could read the sermon. 

At this time Avonham buiied her dead in her church-yard; they 
lay grouped together ileighbor by neighbor, family near family. In 
many cases the father had lain for a geneiation undisturbed till the 
earth was taken from his coffin for a short lime in order that his son 
might join him in that long sleep of which no man knows aught 
save that, whatever may be its waking, it is hard to see our loved 
ones lie down to it. They laid Walter Rivers with his mother, who 
had died when he was a child. 

Such an array of people had not been before seen in the Marlshiie 
town. It was a general day of mouining; closed shutters, drawn 
blinds, and suspended trade were universal. From the country-side, 
hundreds came in to swell the throng of townsfolk. What respect 
or esteem might not have been able to effect curiosity did, and the 
great grief of the two great houses of Avonham was shared, so tar as 
outward demonstration went, by all who from town or country- 
side could reach St. Hildesrarde's that day. 

The funeral itself was simple in the extreme. True that the mourn- 
ful procession passed from the house of Sir Headingly Cann to the. 
church yard through lines of bareheaded men and weeping women; 
true thai the hands of the most honored men in Avonham received 
it at the lych gate, and bore the coffin first into the church and next 
to the grave; true that the whole of the church-j^ard was one mass 
of silent and sympathizing humanity, but the outward trappings of 
woe were plain and unostentatious, and the rigid simplicity of the 
accessories, combined with the solemn demonstration which a silent 
crowd always makes, weie fitting and touching evidences that those 
assembled were seeing the last of a young life which was not, but 
might have been, a great one. 

The chief figure among the mourners was, of course. Sir Heading, 
ly Cann. 

The old man had borne up bravely under the loss of him whom 


216 


AS AYOlSr FLOWS. 


Le loved as his own son, but it was evident that the blow had fallen 
heavily. He carried himself right nobly under his grief, though, as 
became a high-minded man, as he was. Theie was no faltering in 
speech as he lollowed the splendid service for the dead, no halting 
in his gait as he walked behind the coffin that held his nephew ; he 
had no tears in his eyes at the grave, and he thanked, with a firm 
voice, Ihose whose position gave them the right ot personally ofter- 
ing >sympathy to him after the last rites were over. Perhaps he came 
nearest to showing open emotion when, seeing Mr. Boldham, looking, 
if possible, more grief stricken than he, he made his wa}’’ to him and 
held out his hand, which the other grasped in silence. An intuitive 
feeling that this was a meeting whose words and incidents were sa- 
cred things to all but those two kept every one aloof, but it was seen 
that Sir Headingly was the one who spoke, and that the banker, 
ovewhelmed with grief and horror at the whole of the fearful affair, 
was totally unable to stem the current of his sorrow. 

Slowly the concourse filed out of the cburch-^j^ard, and dispersed 
among the streets ot theftpwn. 

xAmong those who had joined in the general expression of respect 
had of course been Mr. Bompas, and those who took note of such 
things observed that he stood between his neighbors at the Coombes, 
Messrs. Bryceson and Markham. People wlio saw them, after the 
funeral, crossing the market-place together, observed to each other 
that Mr. Bompas seemed a good deal taken up* with Mr. Galbraith’s 
two friends, that the Coombes appeared to have a good many owners, 
and that Mr. Galbraith had been away a longish while. 

The group of three w^as a silent one. They walked past Mr. 
Bompas’s Louse and entered the gate of the Coombes. Arrived 
in the drawing-room ot that establishment, a room which showed by 
its outward and visible signs, by its pipe-racks, fishing-rods, boxing- 
gloves, whips, guns, and other sjiorting paraphernalia, that it was a 
room devoted to the use ot bachelors, Bryceson poked the fire into a 
blaze, and drew up the blind at the back French window, to admit 
light. 

“ No one can see it,” he said apologetically, “ and the house has 
been so desperatel}^ gloomy all day 1 really can’t stand it any longer. 
For goodness’s sake, Fred, ring for Fdward or that sweet nymph, 
Mrs. Hackett.” 

Fred did as he was requested, and^ the negro appeared in answer 
to the summons. He had apparently understood it, for he brought 
wine and other cordials on a tray. 

“ Edward,’* said Bryceson, “ we are both going over to Avonham 
Road to meet Harry; get a carriage and pair from Raraty’s, and you 
will drive us yourself.” 

“ Berry good, Mas’r Wal’r; Mr. Bompas cornin’ ^long too?” asked 
Edward. 

“ No, Edward,” said Mr. Bompas; ” 1 conceive that these gentle^ 
men would prefer to welcome 3ir. Galbraith and his-— ah — brother 
by themselves. 1 will — ah — postpone the great pleasure which 1 shall 
feel at seeing Mr. Galbraith return safe and sound to his — ah— to the 
— ah — place of his adoption and choice.” 

” Dear old Harry,” said Fied Markham, “ we shall all be glad to 
see him again, and fancy having poor old Reginald among us once 


• «|| AS AVOX FLOWS. 217 

morel Ah, but I’m afraid,” he added, ” it will he with a broken 
heart, and only to spend the fag-end of a ruined life. Mr. Bompas, 
you will have no idea what he was from seeing him as, 1 fear, he 
is.” 

‘‘ Sir,” said Mr. Bompas, ” let us hope that a brighter close to his 
life will be granted to him.” 

“Isay amen to that,” said Bryceson, “ but what will happen, 
and how Harry will act, or what Reginald will do, 1 don’t know.” 

“ Does he know of the — of the terrible occurrence of last Mon- 
day?” asked Mr. Bompas. 

“ Not a word,” answered Markham; “ we consulted together and 
came to the decision that we would leave all explanation' till their 
return. This sudden affair of the murder must of course make such 
a difierence in many ways, that it is impossible for us to foretell 
how the matter will be conducted, or how it will turn out in the end. 
Besides, we may want to consult other people — yourself, for in- 
stance; and again a letter might miscarry and be opened. It is a 
chance whether they get any information from the papers, and we 
can easily explain why we were silent. Also it will be necessary that 
Harry shall know before Reginald, and oh, there are many good 
reasons besides, which 1 need not recapitulate.” 

•Mr. Bompas sipped his wine in silence for a minute or two, and 
then, laying down his glass, said very gravely: 

“ 1 have known Mrs. Stanhope — as irom — ah — old associations I 
must continue to call her — for so long; 1 have been so great an ad- 
mirer of her goodness, her charity, her whole manner of life, and 
have been so long her— 1 trust — faithful servant, that these things 
have come upon me with a great shock. From wl^at you have told 
me, and from the result of her interview with my' daughter Ade- 
laide last Monday, 1 feel that I must accept these facts that are—ah 
— forced upon me by belief and even by — ah— conviction; but 1 as- 
sure you,, gentlemen, that I would fain disbelieve them. Is there no 
doubt, no misapprehension, no mistake?” 

The good old fellow’s broken voice seemed to plead for his old 
friend’s wife as he put his question. 

Bryceson shook his head. 

“ There is no mistake, believe me, Mr. Bompas,” he said; “ she 
is Reginald Wilding’s wife, beyond a doubt.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Bompas, “ there must be mercy shown. Being 
strong in your position, you must be pitiful.” 

Very firm and clear was Mr. Bompas’s voice now; it sounded to 
himself almost threatening; he was uncertain how his remarks would 
be tak4n and his appeal received ; but, like the stout-hearted man 
that he was, he was without care on that point. His duty lay clear 
before him, to stand between the wrath of an injured husband and 
the person of a woman whom he respected from custom, guilty 
though she might be. 

“Whatever were this lady’s faults, or, if you like it, crimes,” 
pursued he, “ you must, in all justice, remember two things first, 
that she considered her first husband dead; secondly, her blameless 
life of late years. ” 

“Years,” said Markham, quietly but firmly, “ which our poor 
friend has passed— how?” 


218 AS AVON FLOWS. > * 

The question was not answered. Mr. Bompas remained silent. 
Bryeeson slowly cut and lit a cigar. 

“You may depend/’ said Markham, “upon all justice being 
done. It may be that Mrs. Stanhope is Mrs. Stanhope, and that her 
worldly position is unassailable. It may be that Reginald will him- 
self take views of the position different from ours. But in any case,” 
he coiiclirded, with a slight flush, “ you may be sure of this one tact, 
and be comforted by it, that Harry is a humane man and a large- 
hearted one, and also that there is some one else now who has a 
claim on him^ and who, it 1 do not greatly mistake, will endeavor to 
divert, and doubtless will succeed in diverting, much of his anger 
from a woman who is undoubtedly suffering terribl}^ just how.” 

Mr. Bompas nodded his' head gravely, but with a gratified look. 
The last words greatly reassured him. 

He was about to express himseli as being "vsilling to trust to his 
3 "oung friends, and to his daughter’s influence, when Edward ap- 
peared at the door, interrupting him in his speech. 

“ What is it, Ned?” asked Bryeeson, who was standing in front 
of the fire, looking moodily at his triend, fur the subject was a pain- 
ful one to all in the room, and puffing slowly at his cigar. 

“ Dr. Mom p ’son want to see you, sah,” said the negro. 

Bryeeson looked from Mr. Bompas to Markham inquiringly. They 
stared at him in return. 

“ Show Dr. Mompesson in, Ned,” said he, then, turning to Mr. 
Bompas, said, “ Do you know why he has called?” 

Mr. Bompas shook his head. 

Dr. Mompesson being ushered in, looked anything but at his ease. 
He shook hands with Mr. Bompas, bowed to the two friends, and 
took the seat handed to him by Ned, who then left the room. 

Dr. Mompesson coughed slightly,. and glanced at Mr. Bompas with 
a constrained air. ^ 

That gentleman at once perceived his embarrassment, and rose 
from his seat. 

“ Y"ou wish to speak to Mr. Bryeeson piiVately, do you not, 
Mompesson?” said he. 

“ Well, yes,” said the doctor, hesitatingly, “1 did; but if I am 
interrupting any — ” 

“ Not at all,” said Bompas, taking his hat. “ 1 shall see you all 
to-night, shall 1 not, Walter?” 

Markham also rose from his seat as though to leave the room, 
when Bryeeson spoke: 

“ One "moment, Mr. Bompas; wait a bit, Fred. If 1 do i^pt mis- 
take the cause of Doctor Mompesson’s visit, I should prefer that you 
remained. Unless I am greatly in error, doctor, your visit relates 
to Mrs. Stanhupe. ’ ’ 

“ It does,” said the doctor, very much surprised at being: thus an- 
ticipated in his communication. 

“ In that case, Doctor Mompesson, my old friend Mr. Fred Mark- 
ham here—” 

He indicated Fred, and the doctor rose and bowed to him. 

“ — is concerned in the matter equally with yourself. We are 
acting for our absent friend Mr. Galbraith.” 

Th^doctor, who had resumed his seat, nodded. 


AS' ATOBT FLOWS. 219 

It was partly to question you respecting Mr. Galbraith that 1 
came here to-day,” he said. 

“ Just so,” said Bryceson. ‘‘ Mr. Bompas,” he resumed, ” isln 
our confidence upon a c;ertain matter very much concerning Mrs. 
Stanhope, and you may speak freely before him. Indeed, in a mat- 
ter so delicate, and in the absence of m.^, friend, I should prefer the 
presence of a gentleman my senior, and one in whom 1 have every 
confidence and trust.” 

The two old friends exchanged inquiring glances. 

“ I have no hesitation,” said the doctor, after a short pause, in 
speaking before my old friend Mr. Bompas, though the matter is, as 
you say, Mr. Bryceson one of extreme delicacy. Indeed, it is the 
most painful one i have had during the whole of niy medical ex- 
perience and practice.” 

Mr. Bompas shook his head sadly. “ It is a sad one for me, my 
dear Mompesson, I assure you,” said he. 

” Let me ask you a question first, gentlemen,” said the doctor, 
turning to Bryceson and Markham. ‘‘Are you, or were you per- 
sonally acquainted with a man named Walter Wilding?” 

” For many years,” answered Lred Markham. ‘‘We were com- 
rades together in America.” 

” Is he not dead? ’ asked the doctor, looking earnestly at the faces 
of all in the room. 

” He is not,” said Markham. 

” But he was shot, was he not?” asked the doctor, who evinced 
much surprise at Fred’s answer. 

“ He was shot,” said Markham, ‘‘ and was believed to be dead 
for many years, but he is alive.” 

‘‘Is he any connection of Mr. Galbraith?” asked Doctor Mom- 
pesson. 

‘‘ He is his half-brother,” answered Fred, while Bryceson still 
stood before the fire smoking slowly; ‘‘they are children of the 
same mother.” 

‘‘ i am asking these questions from having received some instruc- 
tions from Mrs. Stanhope, whom 1 am attending; those instructions 
are very incoherent, and almost amount to ravings. As I told you 
just now, my position is most painful. Tell me, gentlemen, how 
is Mr. Wilding connected with Mrs. Stanhope?” 

There was a short pause. Then Mr. Bompas spoke. He could 
not bear the silence that followed the question. 

‘‘ He is her first husband, Doctor Mompesson, and he will arrive 
in Avonham this evening.” 

“ Good God!” said the doctor, and his hat and Malacca cane fell 
with a crash on the floor. 

The feverish ravings of the sick-bed, hitherto almost unintelligible 
to him, were now explained. 

“ Did you know of this before, Bompas?” he asked when he had 
recovered from his astonishment. 

‘‘On Sunday last, for the first time,” answered Mr. Bompas; 
‘‘ my daughter Adelaide told me.” 

” Adelaide?” said Doctor Mompesson, in intense surprise; ” how 
ever came she to know anything of it?” 


220 AS AYOK FLOWS. 

“ She was informed of it by my friend Mr. Galbraith,” saidBryce- 
son, taking the answer out of Mr. Bompas’s mouth. 

The doctor stared at him as though this was more astonishing than 
anything he had yet heard. He turned to 5fr. Bompas. 

” It is so,” said that worthy in reply to his triend’s mute inquiry; 
” Mr. Galbraith and Adelaide are engaged to be married.” 

Therp was a twinge of self-reproach felt as he said it. All his 
-old friends had been kept in the dark. Fred Markham noticed his 
discomfort and came to his rescue, to the greater edification of the 
puzzled doctor. 

“ We are astonishing Doctor Mompesson in detail,” said he; ” Mr. 
Bompas, will you give your friend an account of what we all know? 
As Doctor Mompesson has been let into our secret, he may as well 
make one at our council. The matter nas gone further, by a series 
of accidental occurrences, than we had anticipated, and, as it seems 
likely that it will all gradually leak out, and will perhaps get a great 
deal of embellishment from rumor, it is far better that Doctor Mom- 
pesson should learn the truth from us.” 

Thus requested, Mr. Bompas informed the doctor of all the events 
which we have learned of late. 

Mr. Bompas did not fail, at the close of his narration, to reiterate 
and strongly impress on the young men — whose relationship to his 
family was explained to the doctor and astonished him very much 
— the principles of leniency and mercy which he had been inculcat- 
ing just previous to Doctor Mompesson’s arrival. With them the 
doctor heartily and cordially agreed. It was a sad tale to which he 
had to listen, told fairly and with moderation by Mr. Bompas, and 
not interrupted by a word from either of the young men, but the 
doctor had the natural partisanship of a Marlshire man for Marl- 
shire things, and, whatever were the faults of this woman, she was 
the widow of his old friend, and he was prepared to defend her fix>m 
oppression, though he could not justify her life. 

“ And there is one thing,” he added as he was going away with 
his old crony Bompas, ” about which you must not misunderstand 
me. Your friends arrive to-night. They will not be able to see 
Mrs. Stanhope yet.” 

” 1 do not think my friends are likely to ask such a thing,” an- 
swered Markham, who, though he had kept strict silence whilst the 
old fellow urged liis plea, was somewhat ruffled by one or two of his 
remarks, for the doctor, in his eagerness to support his crony’s ap- 
peal for lenieucy, had persuaded himself that injustice and inhu- 
manity were the characteristics of the young men, and had spoken 
accordingly once or twice. 

“Even if they did,” said the doctor, “ it would be denied them. 
1 am Mrs, Stanhope’s medical attendant; she is in no condition to 
be disturbed; 1 shall allow no one to see her, on any business what- 
ever.” 

Bryceson bowed. “ That shall be faithfully reported to my friend 
Mr. Galbraith,” said he. 

“Yes,” said the doctor, grufl^ly enough, “ do, if you please, and 
tell Mr. Galbraith, moreover, that this town is full of Mrs. Stan- 
hope.’s friends, friends who have known her for some years, and her 
husband for many; we shall require proof of what you allege, Mr. 


221 


AS AVOH PLOWS. 

Uryceson and Mr. Markham. A mere general statement such as has 
been made to me to-day, and such as you made to Mr. Bompas, will 
not satisfy us, 1 assure you.’" 

For a moment Markliani made as though he would have spoken, 
but he remained'sileut, and the doctor, without any attempt at bid- 
ding any one tarewel!, trotted out into the hall and let himself out, 
leaving Mr. Bompas with his hosts. 

Mr. Bompas looked as though he feared that the heightened color 
of the two friends betokened a coming explosion; but he-w'as mis- 
taken. As the door slammed emphatically behind the doctor, Bryce- 
Son smiled. He threw away his cigar, which had gone out, chose 
another, and passed his cigar-case to Markham. 

“ Vour friend is a warm-hearted man apparently, Mr. Bompas,” 
he said, “ and very much in earnest.” 

Mr. Bompas muttered a few words, eulogistic of the doctor, but 
deprecatory of his last remark. 

“ Warm-hearted he may be,” said Markham, pausing before strili- 
ing a match, ‘‘ but, it you have any influence with him, Mr. Bom- 
pas, and wish his patient well— which 1 believe you sincerely do — 1 
would advise you to recommend him not to take that ground with 
Harry Galbraith when he arrives. If will not do with him, 1 can 
assure you. Hor would much more of it have gone down very well 
with me, or with Walter here. It must not be forgotten that we 
three men, and three more, stand shoulder to shoulder in this mat- 
ter, as we have stood shoulder to snoulder in even graver ones; nor 
must this be allowed to ba overlooked; that for many weary years 
the man whom all of us love as a brother ‘has been passing his life 
in a living tomb, whilst the woman for whom Doctor' Mompesson 
has been pleading has lived in luxury and ease. Is it our fault that 
retribution has come upon her at last? No, Mr. Bompas, it is not. 

Not so many years ago but that some of your old men could re- 
member it, your Law would have doomed her to Death, Whatever 
it can do now, there is only one chance between her and it, if we 
choose to invoke its aid. For, trust me, we have proof and evidence 
enough of her guilt to convince a townful of pig-headed doctors; and 
it we are set at defiance, we shall bring it forward!’" 

Mr. Bompas, who was wise in his generation, did not reply to the 
young man, whose flushed cheeks and flashing eyes showed that he 
was speaking under a measure of excitement which, to judge by the 
look on the face of Bryceson, who stood by in silence, was unfa- 
miliar even to his familiar friend. 

***** w * 

‘ ” Now 1 have told you all there is to tell, Harry; and you will see 

why we dine here and drive home afterward; don’t let us have an- 
other word about it to-night. Reginald looks wonderfully well, 
considering all things, and a few days of quiet will do wonders with 
him. But of all the good things, meeting the old squire in Liver- 
pool was the best. Let us go in to dinner and be as merry as we can 
to night, at any rate.” 

Despite the darkness of some of their thoughts, it was a hearty 
part}^ that sat down to dinner at the Railway Hotel at Avonham 
Road. At the top of the table was the old squire, on his left hand 


22Z 


AB AYOK FLOWS. 


Bryceson and Markham, at his right sat Galbraith, and next to him 
the lost one found, the old comrade one more among them, the 
dead restored to lite. 

*‘Boys!’^ said the old squire, raisin his glass solemnly, “ it is 
thirteen years since we met like this. 1 thank God tor our meeting 
here nowK’ 

It was not an ordinary “ sentiment,” and they drank in silence to 
it; but none of them had e^rer known a moment of greater joy, or 
drunk with more relish of the wine. 

Ah, there is never Joy like that great heart-rush that sweeps away 
the memory of Pain. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FOR WANT OF AN ABSENT WITNESS. 

“ I CAN add no more to what 1 have said. That you, uncle, do 
not believe my words, 1 know; that you, Mr. Sennett, and you, Mr. 
Sinclair, see in them no hopeful signs and no materials tor my de- 
fense, 1 am aware; but 1 am helpless in this fearful position; 1 am 
as innocent of the murder ot poor Rivers as you are yourselves, but 
1 can advance no theory to account for his death, and 1 swear that 
1 have consistently spoken the truth.” 

The scene was a cell in Ridgetown Jail, a cell plainly furnished, 
but not without sore com tort; Alfred Shelman was the speaker. 
He was seated at a table on which were writing materials and books; 
his three visitors were also seated: his uncle on a bed in the room, 
Mr Bennett and the third person on two chairs. The Mr; Sinclair, 
whom he now addressed, was his counsel. Interested in more than 
an ordinary degree, he had sought and obtained permission to visit 
the man whom he was that day to defend against the heaviest charge 
which can be brought against man or woman — the taking of human 
life.* 

At every visit which either Mr. Sennett, in his character of solicitor, 
or Mr. Boldham, as the nearest relative to the prisoner, had paid 
him, he had strenuously asserted his innocence. He could, he de- 
clared, throw no light on the unhappy affair; there was no one whom 
he suspected; nothing could be gained from him but reiterated pro- 
tests that his hands were free from blood-guiltiness, that he fully 
xeciognized the irerilous position in which he stood, but'^that if the 
jury found him guilty, and the law exacted her last stem penalty, 
he should die an innocent victim to circumstantial evidence. 

Mr. Sennett had not at first believed his asseverations ; but the 
young man had told him the tale of his movements on that fatal 
afternoon, so clearly, so unswervingly, and so consistently that, at 
last, and against his own better judgment, he had fastened on his 
words as being true. For his own further satisfaction, he had 
begged the counsel whom he had engaged — one of ^e most eminent 

* For an example of a counsel visiting a client charged with murder, the 
reader is referred to Mr. Serjeant Ballantine’s book, “ Serjeant BaHantine’s 
Experiences,” Seaside Library No, 1:^. 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


223 

tiien on tlie Western Circuit— to hear, from the prisoner's own lips, 
what heiiart himself stated to him in his brief, and the counsel, im- 
pressed with the pertinacity with which a hopeless line of defense 
was adhered to, and assured that there was more in the case than 
senseless obstinacy, had himself come to see him and hear him for 
himself. 

“.Will you repeat to me," said he, “ what you have already told 
j^our solicitor and yoiirmncle?" 

“Willingly," answered Shelman; “this is my statement, and 1 
declare that every word of it is true. " 

The barrister leaned a little forward, and, carefully observant of 
his face, listened attentively to his words. 

^ “ 1 went out from my own house at about one o’clock to shoot 
pheasants in my wood at Downholmes,%hich 1 have recently pur- 
chased from Mr. Millard, of Beytesbury. It took me about halt an 
hour to get there, and 1 was either in or on the outskirts of the wood 
for. about an hour. 1 say * about ' — 1 kept no reckoning — 1 did not 
even look at my watch. 1 had poor sport, and the mist rose very 
rapidly; 1 was disgusted at my want of success and knocked off, 
leaving the few birds 1 had shot at the lodge, where Mr. Millard’s 
gardener -and his wj^e were still living. 1 had allowed them, al Mr. 
Millard’s request, to occupy the house until Cbristmas. 1 left the 
birds there. 1 wish," he added, with a sad smile and a shake of 
the head, “ that I had taken them home by the road, or that 1 had 
left my gun as well." 

“1 wish you had, with all my heart, my poor boy," said Mr. 
Boldham, with a sigh. 

“ Well," said Shelman, with the same smile, and speaking in a 
resigned tone of voice— a tone that his uncle had seldom heard him 
use of late years — “ I did not; 1 left the birds, intending to send my 
man for them the next day; 1 took my gun, and went toward Avon- 
hani across the meadows. On the foot bridge across the Avon 1 met 
Walter Rivers. Up to that time 1 had had no open quarrel with 
nim; indeed, 1 had scarcely met him since the election; but 1 was 
greatly incensed at finding that he had forestalled me with Mrs. 
Stanhope. Do you know about th'at, sir? 1 would rather not lepeat 
it it you do — " 

Mr. Sinclair referred to a slip of paper. “ There is no need to go 
into it now," said he gently. j 

“Thank you, sir! Well, 1 was incensed, as 1 said, about that, 
and 1 was alto'gether in a bad temper — my temper has been a curse 
to me all my life — and 1 passed him without speaking. 1 had gone 
a foot, or two on the bridge when he spoke to me, and asked wbat 
was the matter? did 1 mean to cut him? 1 turned and answered 
him roughly that 1 chose my own acquaintance and had no longer 
any desire for his. He laughed and said the arrangement would 
suit him very well, and then I got into a great rage with him, and 
accused him of circulating a false report about me in the town con- 
cerning the election riot. 1-was halt mad with rage, and scarcely 
know what 1 said. He answered me, but was much cooler, whilst 
1 was boiling with rage. I put my gun down against the railings, 
and we quarreled violently, though he kept his head. He taunted 
me with having lost my chance o^ marrying Mrs. Stanhope, and I 


224 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


retorted that it 1 thought he had had any hand in maligning me to 
her, 1 would put a bullet into him. I only meant that 1 wx)uld have 
called him out. ” 

“Aon mean that you would have challenged him to a duel?’' said 
Mr Sinclair. 

“ Yes, that was my meaning,” answered Shelman. 

“ That, and no more?” asked the lawyer. 

“ That, and no more,” said Shelman; “1 had no other thought 
in my mind at the time.” 

“ What happened next?” asked Mr. Sinclair, again referring to a 
paper in his hand. 

“ The young fellow, Lightfoot, the grocer’s assistant, came up 
suddenly. He came out of the mist, which was getting very thick, 
and neither of us, I think, heard his footsteps; at any rate, I dfd 
not. His voice startled me, and it was that, as much as the rage 1 
was in, that made me give him the answer 1 did. What he said of 
my words and of Rivers’s, at the inquest, was perfectly true. .He was 
frightened at my threat, and went away pretty quickly. After he 
had gone I think 1 was worse than before. I called Rivers a cur, 
and a scoundrel, and vowed to be even with him; 1 rushed away 
from the place more like a madman than any^iing else, quite for- 
getting my gun until 1 was a good way on the mgh-road. 1 walked 
to Berry Hill to walk off my temper and the state of agitation into 
which it had thrown me, for 1 was fearfully upset. 1 then turned 
and returned home by the way at the back of the church-yard. 1 had 
not been at home half an hour, and had just settledmyself down for 
the evening, when Inspector Grane came, and, after some rigma- 
role, which 1 swear 1 could make nothing of, arrested me for Rivers’s 
murder. I declare that my first feeling was one of such indignation 
that 1 had almost knocked him down. When 1 learned that the 
dreadful news of Rivers’s death was true, 1 was horrified. 1 paid 
no attention to Grane’s threats of taking down anything that I said, 
but protested my innocence as 1 do now. Before Heaven, 1 swear 
that 1 had no hand in that fearful crime. The rest that happened 
you all know.” 

“ Do you know any one,” said the lawyer, “ who had any grudge 
against Walter Rivers?” 

“ Ko, 1 do not,” said Shelman; “ he was generally popular, 1 be- 
lieve, all over the place. ” 

“ In the whole course of this violent quarrel, no blow was struck?” 
asked Mr. Sinclair. 

“ No, no blow was struck, though it would have come to that if 1 
had not gone away,” answered Shelman. 

“ I have nothing more to ask, Mr. Sennett,” said Mr. Sinclair, 
and he folded his papers and prepared to go. 

When they were outside the jail and the two lawyers had shaken 
hands with Mr. Boldham, the Mayor of Avonham said to the coun- 
sel: - 

“ 1 wanted you to hear him yourself for my own sake; what do 
you think of his tale?” 

“ If 1 am any judge of character, it is true. He may be, and 1 
think is, a young man of violent temper, indeed he has admitted it 
to us, but I believe his tale is trfte. There is a mystery about the 


AS AYOHs FLOWS. 


225 




whole case. On the evidence 1 should say that there was not a 
doubt of his guilt— any lawyer would say the same, and 1 very much 
fear — ’’ and he shook his head. 

“ What?'’ ^ 

“ That the jury will think so tool" 


******* 


There had been an emigration of AvonhamfolktoBidgetown that 
morning. Nowadays there is a railway service between the places, 
though the trains go a roundabout way, and cover twenty miles in 
bringing together the inhabitants of two towns only ten miles apart 
by road, but at the time of our tale the highway was the only means 
of intercommunication, and, on the morning of the trial, a string of 
vehicles left the smaller town for the larger. A few persons of county 
position had managed to secure seats in the court, but the majority, 
if they could not manage to crowd in with-the general public would 
have only the solace of getting the news of the result a little earlier 
than those who stayed behind. Beadlemore Arto drove Tiniothy 
Rapsey, Mr. Foil well, and Mr. Polljmoy in his high dog-cart, and 
Wolstenholme and Hcppenner Pye went fraternally in a gig which 
only held two; Raraty took a party in a wagonette, and the three 
vehicles kept pretty close together and stayed at the same half-way 
house. In the street of Ridgetown which fronted the Guildhall, 
there were constant recognitions passing between Avonham men, and 
many were the tricks, shifts, and maneuvers employed by those who 
wanted places. 

Timothy Rapsey was delighted with a seat in the very first row of 
the gallery, and exactly in front of the dock. From this coign of 
vantage he scanned the whole court, and gave his less fortunate 
companioQS information concerning any notable whom he saw. 

“Mr. Sennett’s a-talkin' to a tall Tyer in a wig; 1 reckon that's 
him as is goin' to defend." 

“ Killett ain't got no seat; a'll have to stand; oh, no, a won't; 
a've found one at last." 

“ Look 'ee there now; there’s Mr. Bompas up behind, and Mr. 
Galbraith wi' 'im." 

“ That’s that oldgen’lman staying wi' Mr. Galbraith o' t’other side 
o’ Mr. Bompas." 

“ Lor’, what a voice that crier 'a' got, to be sure! Old Daddy 
Prosser ought to be here to hear ’un." 

“ Mr. Galbraith’s other friend’s just come in and set next to 'un. 
I don’t see Mr. Brj^ceson nowheres." 

“ Poor Mr. Boldham! they’ve give him a pleacenext to Mr. Sen- 
nett; a looks main flurried.’' 

Thus the little man chirped and chattered, and peered about the 
court like an observant magpie. 

When the judge had taken his seat, and the jiUry had been sworn, 
there was a stir in the court as the prisoner appeared. He bore him- 
self well under the fire of eyes turned tpon him, and his color went 
and came. His plea of “ Not Guilty ’’ was given in a clear and 
firm voic(j; but he seemed to pay little attention to the speech of the 
counsel for the Crown, occupying himself in looking found the court 
and occasionally flushing as he caught the familiar countenance of 
8 


m 


AS AYOK PLOWS, 


» 

some Avonham man among the spectators. Among them he saw the 
face of Galbraith, and sought eagerly for that ot Bryceson near him; 
not finding it, for Bryceson had too much manhood to be present, 
he turned again and scanned Gallfraith’s face. There was no hostility 
in it; turning again he caught a fricnaly visage, that of John Rann, 
who smiled and nodded to him as though to bid him be of good 
heart; he answered him with a smile. He heeded the trial very 
little at first. 

Would that prosy man, heaping fact on fact against him, never 
be done? 

There was Adolphus Carter sitting with his father, and close to 
Mr. Bompas. Pleasant for him! 

Half Avonham was here to see him tried. How many would 
come to see him when— 

That would be in the open air, too, and there would be more room 
for them than in the court. 

Thank God! there were no Avonham women there to gloat over 
him in his misfortune. 

Had Galbraith ridden over on the horse that he bought in spite of 
him? 

He had seen him once riding with — ; ah, thank goodness the speech 
was finished at last! 

Such were his thoughts alter that first survey of the court and the 
faces familiar to him. 

They were succeeded by a kind of dull interest in the evidence. It 
was so great a, nuisance having to stand there before all those com- 
mon vulgar people, that he might as well try to get some amusement 
from the witnesses. He took notice ot them as of the actors in a 
slow play, the end of which he was anxious for, but the plot of 
which had little attraction tor him. Those busy men, writing just 
in front ot him, would describe him as being quite calm and cool 
during the progress of the trial; they would praise his command ot 
feature and his courage. In reality he felt as unconcerned as any 
spectator in court. 

* ****** 

The end was near now. The witnesses had been examined and 
cross-examined, the counsel for the defense had made what every 
one to- night and to-morrow would describe as a grand speech, and 
the judge was calmly and dispassionately going over the evidence 
and summing up to the jury. The examination both of Jacob Starer, 
who was terribly nervous, and, even in his simple tale, contradicted 
himself once or twice, and of Lightfoot, who had gwen some vague 
evidence as to the time of his bearing the shots, had roused great in- 
terest, and had not been so unfavorable to the prisoner at the trial 
as it had been at the inquest. The wisdom of a reserved defense 
was seen, and Mr. Sennett was praised for his tactical skill by all his 
Avonham townsfolk during the interval for luncheon. Lightfoot, 
too, could not swear whethdt or not the gun was capped or cocked 
when he saw it on the bridge. Jacob Starer admitted that he had 
been more anxious to get the body of Walter Rivers out of the water 
than to notice its position as it lay. These were all points in favor 
of the prisoner. The doctor’s evidence and opinion as to the cause 


AS AVON- PLOWS. 


227 


of death had not, however, been shaken. He did not believe that the 
deceased in handling the gun, perhaps with an idea of causing it to 
beTestored to its owner, had accidentally shot himself; the wounds, 
he thought, could not have been self-indicted. But the supposition 
had been well handled in the defending counseks speech, and Mr. 
Sinclair had made the most of it, and of each of the other points; 
there was much doubt now in the minds of the speQtators, and John 
Kann’s face was radiant. 

But there was that violent quarrel on the bridge to be disposed of, 
the wiser heads thought. 

The judge finished a masterly summing up, the conclusion of 
which was solemn in its mention of the issues involved, and of the 
duty of the jury to their country and their fellow-men alike, and the 
jury withdrew. 

There was the usual buzz of subdued conversation in the court 
during their absence; the judge left the bench, the prisoner was re- 
moved frorh the dock. 

A quarter of an hour — half an hour— an hour passed, and the jury 
had not returned. Lights were set in the court as the winter day 
waned, and still they waited. 

The issue of what was passing in the jury -room we shall see pres- 
ently. Let us look at something which is going on in the court. 
The actors are two, and their action is quite silent and unobserved. 
It consists simply of one man watching anothei. Candles have just 
been brought, and the court is well lighted where they sit. 

The man who is watched holds a handkei chief in his hands, and 
is twisting and wringing it till its threads are giving way, and it is 
full of holes, and shred&d and torn in twenty places; from time to 
time he wipes from his brow great cold drops of sweat, which stand 
there in pearl-like beads. His lips are white, and he rubs them fur- 
tively now and then, as though he knew their pallor and sought to 
give them color. He has been taking notes of the tiial, but has torn 
them into shreds and thrown them on the floor. "When the lights 
were brought he made a movement of impatience, and, tor some 
minutes, shaded his eyes with his hand as though they were affected 
by the glare. From time to time he looks about him, but furtively, 
and as if to see whether people are observing him, more than to 
notice them or their doings. Surely the prisoner himself cannot be 
under stronger emotion, as he waits for the verdict, than tliis man. 

The man watching can only see one side of his face except when 
he turns, but he never takes his gaze from him and watches with 
eyes well used to watch, and notes every twitch and gesture. 

There is a stir in the court, for the judge has been sent for, and 
the prisoner is again in the dock. 

The jury enter, and their names are called amid a silence deep 
and great, broken only by the voices of the clerk and the jurymen. 
All ears are opened for the verdict, all eyes turned to the jury-box. 

All save two; the watcher never takes his eyes from the face of 
the man whom he is watching. 

“ How say you, gentlemen? Do you find the prisoner guilty or 
not guilty of willful murder?” 

” Guilty!” 

A flush comes into the face of the man watched; then it dies out; 


228 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 

he half turns to the one who sits by his side, then his eyes close, his 
head bends forward, and he falls with a loud crash on the floor. 

There is a little confusion as he is removed, and a county map^ls- 
trate whispers to the sheriff, who whispers to the judge, that it is a 
great friend of the prisoner, overcome by the verdict. 

“ Prisoner at the bar! Have you anything to say why sentence 
of death should sot be passed upon you?” 

The prisoner lifts his eyes toward the judge, and there is not a 
tremor in his voice as he says: 

” My lord! One witness has been wanting at this tiial, the man ' 
who fired the shot that killed Walter Kivers! That man will be 
found one day, and the jury will live to see that their verdict was 
wrong. Before my Maker, 1 swear that 1 am innocent!” 

In a broken voice, and with great emotion, the judge passes sen- 
tence of death. He feels bound to say that the jury have done their 
duty and that their verdict is according to the evidence. He en- 
treats the prisoner to use the time remaining to him in repentance. 
His own violent passions have brought him to this position, a tear- 
ful one for a man of his station in the world. He can hold out no 
hope; nothing remains but to pass the sentence of the law. And 
the dread words are said in a hushed and awe-stricken court. 

Then the prisoner is removed and goes out of sight, and the 
crowd file out into the street. 

* * * * * * 

“ I do not want to see another man sentenced to death,” says Mr. 
Bompas, as the four friends are waiting for their horses at the hotel 
after the trial. 

” Nor 1,” said Markham. Pah! this sherry tastes of the gallows 
and the hemp!” 

“Nor 1,” says the old squire. “1 shall dream of his face all 
night, poor fellow!” 

“ Nor 1,” says Galbraith, last of all, “ particularly when he is not 
guilty!” 

The three others stare at him. “ Not guilty!” 

“Yes; 1 say I do not believe that young man is guilty!” 

“ Do you believe what he said about that missing witness?” sa^s 
Fred Markham. 

“ 1 do; I believe he will be found, and very shortly too.” 

“ How will he be found? Who will find him?” asks Mr. Bompas, • 
astounded. 

“ 1 will!” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A PERIOD OF SUSPENSE. 

In total ignorance of the far heavier cloud that hung over her, the 
good folks of Avonham received with quiet joy the news of the 
restoration to health of their chief lady. Doctor Mompesson’s praises 
were sounded at every tea-table in the place and the good doctor was 
openly congratulated by every one who met him. To him, who, as 
we know, had his secret to carry about with him, these demonstra- 


229 


AS AYOIT FLOWS. 

tions were awkward, and. he went about the streets looking so very 
grave that folks wondered at it and said to one another that the 
anxiety of the case had told upon the old man. That it was anxiety 
which made him so glum was true, but it was caused by the down- 
fall of an idol, the shattering of an illusion. Doctor JMompesson had 
lost no time in seeing Galbraith. The day after the arrival of the 
latter in Avonham, Ihe doctor had waited upon him, ard what Mark- 
ham had prophesied to Mr. Bompas had come true. No graver mis- 
take could have been made than to attempt to assist Mrs. Stanhope 
by attacking Galbraith. This is what the doctor had done. He had 
demanded rather than asked for proof ; he posed as the self-consti- 
tuted champion of a lady whom he alleged to be lying under a false 
accusation, and he had started the war by what he considered a 
justifiable raid on the enemy’s country. Now to stir up strife is al- 
ways dangerous, and to attack a man who has a grievance, using as 
a weapon a derision of and disbelief in that grievance, is son;elhing 
like arousing a rattlesnake. You maj/^he able to get safely away, 
but it is most certain that you will have to 7nove. Doctor Mompesson 
had to abandon his first position precipitately. 

“ 1 have listened patiently to you, sir,” said Galbraith, ” from re- 
spect for your age, and your honored and honorable position in this 
town, but you are exceeding the privileges both of. your years and 
your station. ” 

“ I have taken upon me,” answered the doctor, ” to speak on be- 
half of a lad}^ whom all Avonham loves and admires, and who, 1 
consider, is being most unjustifiably slandered and abused.” 

Galbraith’s color rose and his temper with it. This was hard for 
any man to have to hear. 

” You are speaking on behalf of a woman,” he said, ” whom 1 
and my friends know to be an adulteress, and have good reason for 
supposing to be a bigamist. You are the champion of a worthy cause, 
1 must say!” 

” Sir,” said the doctor in a great heat, ” 1 do not believe one word 
of your accusation against my friend and patient. From beginning 
to end it’s a cock and bull story—” 

‘‘ Which you shall have speedy opportunity of testing,” said Gal- 
braith. ” 1 will at once apply for a warrant against your friend and 
patient for having committed bigamy. 1 wish you good-morning, 
sir.” 

And he rose from his seat and rang the bell so sharply that Ed- 
ward answered it at the double. 

Now, the doctor, though an obstinate, was nut an utterly pig- 
headed man, and he, at once, saw that he had gone too far with this 
young man. 

‘‘ btay one moment, Mr. Galbraith,” said he, swallowing his irri- 
tation and speaking more calmly, “lam wrong to be hasty with 
you: I am sorry 1 was so: let me have a little more conversation 
with you.” / 

Galbraith signed to Edward, who stood in the doorway, and the 
negro withdrew, 

“ Doctor Mompesson,” said Galbraith when they were alone again, 
“1 cannot blame you for your championship of your friend’s — 
widow— When this news was first conveyed to Mr. Bompas he 


230 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


was as much astounded as you can be, though ’'—he said with a 
smile— “ ne received the story with more equanimity. 1 can assure 
you that he has been as zealous in— Mrs.— in her cause as you could 
be. My friends have done him every justice in reporting that. The 
surroundings of the case are very much altered trom when 1 first 
came to Avonham. My brother has been restored to me as though"' 
from the dead, 1 have found love in a* town to which 1 came with 
hatred and revenge in my heart; and, another hand has dealt to this 
woman a blow so heavy that even 1 pity her. You would, 1 am 
sure, give me credit for every disposition to do right if you knew the 
state of embarrassment into which these things have thrown me since 
my return home. Without promising anything, 1 assure you, in all 
sincerity, that the best thing will be to wait. Wait only tor the issue 
of this trial, wait only for your patient's recovery. The secret is in 
good hands. Trust me to respect your motives and your partisan- 
ship, and forgive any little angry speech that 1 may have made in 
this interview, a painful one,^l know, to both of us." 

“ It is for me to ask your pardon, Mr. Galbraith," said the doctor, 

" I will take your advice and will trust to you to do what is right. 
Let us wait " 

So they parted excellent friends, each with a hearty admiration 
for the other: 

For three weeks Mrs. Stanhope lay between life and death, but at 
last the doctor was able to pronounce her out of danger, and, as we 
have seen, there was universal joy in Avonham over Uie fact. Dur- 
ing those weeks, no whisper of anything beyond the fact of her ill- 
ness had leaked out in the town. 

Avonham had plenty to interest it meanwhile, in the trial the re- 
sult of which we saw in our last chapter, and also in the fact of the 
household at the Coombes having increased in numbers. Mrs. 
Hackett was reinforced by a second charwoman selected by herself. 
Raraty had to put up three more horses for Galbraith, who had pur- 
chased them of Hart Mr. Pinnifter’s face brightened when he men- 
tioned casually the transactions which the gentlemen in South Street 
had with him, and the gossips of the Avonham tea-tables began to 
throw out dark hints of the relations between the three young men 
and the Misses Bompas. The oldest member of the band was 
speedily high in favor in the town, and Doctor Mompesson and Mr. 
Millard when they heard his name, received it with all the honor 
due to it. It was not long before the county paper informed its 
readers that the guest of the proprietor of' the Coombes Was an 
American savant whose fame had spread over two continents," and so 
the house and its occupiers became more important than ever. The 
minds of fhe small fry were somewhat exercised by the squire’s pres- 
ence, as they looked on him somewhat in the light of a new kind of 
bogy,, respectable but not the less dangeious. The negro had been 
at first somewhat uncanny in their eyes, and now that he was sup- 
plemented by one whom they considered as a superior wizard, their 
courtesy increased with their fear, and no one was more respectfully 
received in the streets by the schoolboys than Galbraith and his 
friends. 

So time went on and Mrs. Stanhope recovered, and Shelman was 
tried: with what result we have seen. 


231 


AYOK FLOWS. 

The lime of Christmas was approaching fast. The town had had 
its Agricultural Show, at which local fat oxen had been punched and 
pinched and criticised, and root, crops weighed and poultry shown; 
and after it meritorious farm laborers had received sides of bacon 
or silver medals, apparently as a reward for having been content to 
cling to the same acres of soil- for their existence during five-sixths 
ol their slow, hard, dead-level lives, scarcely higher than those of 
the horses they drove or the hounds their masters walked; farmers 
round had got their orders for Christmas turke^^s, andKillett’s mind 
was weighed dovfn by the fact that oxen, even at Christmas, are not 
^entirely composed of sirloin; Pinniffer’s spirit bottles had burst out 
with seasonable labels representing a white-headed, snowy-bearded 
Silenus, crowned with holly, and discussing a bowl of punch; the 
grocers’ windows were filled with raisins and candied peel and all 
the other signs of the festive season were at hand. 

“1 doubt very much, Walter,” said Galbraith to Bryceson, one 
afternoon, as they walked up the town together, “ whether, with all 
this confounded worry over our heads; 1 shall be able to offer you 
fellows a very merry Christmas; 1 wish with all my heart that what- 
ever is to happen would happen soon, and that we knew the end of 
everything.” 

” And so do 1, my dear fellow; what is this especial errand you 
have to-morrow?” 

” 1 will tell you of it whenl return,” said Galbraith; ” goodness 
knows whether 1 am wrong or no, but 1 cannot get out of my head 
that that man Shelman is not guilty, and it fs concerning that. 
Don’t ask me any more about it now. You shall know all in good 
time.” 

” 1 am quite contented with that, old fellow; come, let us be as 
cheerful as we can until we know the worst or the best of our 
troubles. Thank God, we have Reggie with us, and the squire says 
he sees marked improvement in him already. Then we’re all going 
to be married in the spring, so you see we are better off in some respects 
than we ever thought to be. Come! throw away your cares for the 
time, Harry, and let us be gay. Look at old Pinniffer standing at 
his door, and bidding that old fellow on the cob farewell. He looks 
positively mediaeval. John Gilbert ought to paint him; 1 vow no 
one else could do him justice.” 

” Isn’t that Millard? the parting guest 1 mean? yes, it is, 1 thought 
so.” 

Let us go over and see, I can’t make out in this dusk; I think 
you are right, however.” 

The horseman proved to be our old acquaintance, who had ridden 
in to execute some Christmas commissions. He was easily persuaded 
to dismount, and the two mounted the steps of the hotel together. 
There was no one in the parlor when they entered, and they were 
soon making merry over a small bowl of punch of Mis. Pinnitter’s 
own brewing. 

” When do any of you mean to pay me a visit at Beytesbury,” 
asked Mr. Millard. ” Mrs. Millard is saving some cherry- brandy for 
you, Mr. Bryceson, which, she declares, shall beat anything '; 70 U 
ever tasted. Come and sample it before Christmas comes, and bring 


232 


AS Avoir FLOWS. 


your friends to lunch, Mr, Galbraith, you have not been our way 
once since your return. How is your brother?’’ 

Mr Millard, be it observed, was not the possessor of the secret of 
Reginald Wilding’s illness. To his mind, he was a young man just 
returned from America and just recovering from a continued sick- 
ness, The young men made suitable replies to the old fellow’s in- 
vitation and inquiries, and Mr. Millard resumed. 

“ And so you were over at Ridgetown on Tuesday at the trial, 1 
bear,” he wrent on. 

“I was not,” answered Bryceson, “ 1 could hardly have gone 
after what happened here.” 

” To be sure,” said Mr, Millard, “ well, well, a sad thing, a sad 
thing; 1 was very much upset over it.” 

” You knew both men, of course, intimately?” asked Galbraith, 
as he sipped his punch. 

” Since they were boys, and boys together,” answered Mr. Millard; 
“ to my mind that is the saddest part of the whol^e affair. It is as 
horrible to think of as though they had been actually brothers.” 

” 1 suppose you have heard all kinds of rumors as to the real 
cause of the iiuairel between them?” asked Galbraith. 

” All kinds,” answered Mr. Millard, “and don’t believe one of 
them ; the whole affair is a mystery to me.” 

Bryceson was just about to inform Mr. Millard that his friend had 
a theory on the subject, when he caught Galbraith’s eye, and from 
the look in it he remained silent. / Galbraith did not speak himself, 
but taking out his cigar-case handed it to his friends. Both accepted 
the proffered weeds, and during the process of cutting, lighting, 
and starting, his Cabana, Mr. Millard did not resume. When he 
had seen the first portion of white ash appear and was satisfied that 
all was well, he continued his remarks on the murder. 

“ 1 have always known,” said he, “ that Shelman was a young 
fellow of imperious habits and overbearing manners. What we call 
a masterful man down in these parts. Added to that, his temper 
was hasty, not to say nasty, and he lost it very soon and sometimes 
over very trifling matters. 1 happen to know, Mr. Galbraith, for 
one thing, that from the first day you came into Avonham, he bore 
no good will.” 

Galbraith nodded, but made no other comment on the informa- 
tion. 

“ As for yourself, Mr. Bryceson, why, you know, you two —well, 
you haven’t forgotten, 1 dare say.” 

“ i^o,” said Bryceson, laughing, but changing color a little, “ we 
upset the whole respectability of the place 1 &ow. Gad ! 1 thought 
your friend, Mr. Sennett, would have locked us both up.” 

“’Well,” said Mr. Millard, dryly, “ 1 have known Sennett for a 
good many years, and 1 am extremely glad that the matter went no 
further than it did. It was sufficiently deplorable without anything 
worse being imported into the matter. 1 have always regrett^ that 
fracas, ls\i. Galbraith.” 

“ It would most likely have fallen to my lot to be engaged in it, 
had 1 been at home, Mr. Millard,” said Galbraith — a little stiffly 
perhaps— “^and although viewed in the light of recent events- -with 
which however it has very little to do — it does seem regrettable, yet 


233 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 

1 have too much gratitude lor roy friend making my quarrel his own 
to find any fault with him for it/' 

“ Well," said Mr, Millard, “ every one looks at these things from 
his own standpoint, and, from yours, you are undoubtedly right. 
Let us say no more on that head then. 1 was saying that this aSair 
of the murder is a complete mystery to me. I will tell you why that 
is so." 

Galbraith nodded again, and settled himself to listen, with every 
outward mark of attention to the speaker. . 

" 1 told you just now," said Mr. Millard, leaning back in his seat 
and pufiing slowly at his cigar, “ that I did not believe any of the 
many rumors flying about as to the cause ot any very desperate quar- 
rel between young Shelman and poor Kivers. I know, ot course, 
that they were quarreling violently just at the time the affair hap- 
pened, but 1 cannot for the life ot me see any cause tor matters hav- 
ing gone so far as that Shelman should shoot Kivers, either in hot 
blood or cold blood, no matter what was the subject of their dis- 
pute." 

" But, what theory have you formed upon the matter?" asked 
Bryceson in a tone which showed that he was not much impressed 
by the depth or sagacity of Mv. Millard's remarks up to the present. 

" 1 believe," said Mr. Millard, “ that there was a struggle between 
the two young men and that, in that struggle, the gun went off and 
shot Witer Rivers. I wonder that that was not the defense set 
up." 

"1 don’t quite see how they could set up that defense," said 
Bryceson. " 1 understand that, not only at the inquest but at all 
times, Shelman has strenuously denied shooting or struggling with 
Rivers at all." 

" Well," said Mr. Millard, shrugging his shoulders and apparent- 
ly giving up the thing as a bad job, ‘‘ as 1 said before, the whole 
thing is a mystery to me, although the facts seem plain and on the 
surface; if the theory of a struggle and an accidental discharge of 
the gun be not correct, 1 give up all hopes of ever being able to ex- 
plain the affair. Unless indeed," he added, " Shelman should con- 
fess to the murder. " " p 

Men who have been together in wilder scenes than the smoking of 
cigars, and. the sipping of West Country punch, have little ways 
unknown to the natives of those regions where these peaceful pur- 
suits are indigenous to the soil. JSot a man in Avonham could have 
seen that Galbraith gave Bryceson a sign that he was to pursue his 
inquiry no further; but the .sign was given and understood, for all 
that. There was a pause in the chat fora couple of minutes, during 
which Bryceson and Mr. Millard smoked, and Galbraith seemed in- 
tent on nothing more important than deciphering the inscription on 
the William and Mary guinea which was let into the bottom of the 
rare old punch ladle. 

" By the bye," said he after he had replaced the much cherished 
antique in his proper place, ‘ ‘ 1 saw that interesting young gentle- 
man Carter in the court at Ridgetown last Tuesday. What is he 
doing now that he has left Mr. Bompas?" 

'*■" said Mr. Millard, " 1 heard that he fainted in court when 
the verdict was returned: is that true?" 


234 AS AYOK ELOWS. . 

“ Perfectly/* answered Galbraith, “ 1 was sitting not very far 
from him at the time.” 

“ He was very friendly with Shelman,” said Mr. Millard, “ the 
shock must have been too much for him.” 

“ Ye-e-e-s,” said Galbraith very slowly and in a tone at which 
his friend looked somewhat amazed: “that must have been it, I 
suppose; he seemed more upset than the prisoner.” 

“ He’s not overburdened with courage, 1 fancy,” said Bryceson. 

“ What is he doing just nowV^’ asked Galbraith again of Mu 
Millard. 

“ He is at home with his father,” answered Mr. Millard; “ that is 
another young fellow who has made a fool of himself. But you 
know more about his misdeeds, Mr. Bryceson, than I can tell you, 
of course. Ah, he lost a good chance when he got out of Bompas’s 
good books.” 

“ For that 1 really can’t blame myself,” said Bryceson; “ at any 
rate not entirely.'” 

“ INo,” said Mr. Millard, “ 1 think he must thank his friend Shel- 
man for that in a great measure. ” 

“You think so?’* asked Galbraith. 

“ Oh, yes, 1 am sure of it,” answered Mr. Millard, “ 1 had that 
from Bompas himself.” 

Galbraith nodded two or three times as though the answer, in 
some way, were satisfactory to him, and it had been what he had 
been expecting. 

^ “ But 1 must be getting homeward,” saia Mr. Millard, jumping 
up and shaking hands cordially with the two friends; “ no, thank 
you, Mr. Galbraith, this cigar will last me nearly home; good-by to 
you both: now remember, we expect you to call as soon as you can, 
and you can trust my wife, Mr. Bryceson, for having some cherry 
brandy worth tasting, 1 can assure you. Pinniffer, send my cob 
round.” • 

The two young men stood at the front door, as the good old fel- 
low mounted and rode away, giving him a cheery farewell as he 
turned the corner. As they stood a minute hesitatingly on the steps 
of the Bear, the obsequious and observant Timothy Kapsey entered 
the doorway and gave them an efiusive “ good-evening.” Galbraith 
immediately turned back and followed Timothy to the room they 
had just left. 

Timothy’s nature was elastic. Dashed as he had been by John 
Rann’s vigorous denunciation of his inquisitiveness, he had recov- 
ered his perky manner and was just as eager for any information as 
ever; one circumstance had indeed conduced a good deal to his 
comfort. Rann had met him a few days after their encounter, and 
had disclaimed any desire to give him pain by his remarks. Row 
he thought he saw another chance of adding to his store of knowl- 
edge of his neighbors. 

“Rice seasonable weather, gentlemen,” said he as the friends en- 
tered the room. 

“ Yery,” said Galbraith. 

“1 am glad to see Mrs. Stanhope out driving again,” said 
Timothy. ^ 

“ Oh, is she sufficiently recovered to be about?” asked Bryceson. 


AS AVON FLOWS. 235 

“ Oil, yes,’^ said Timolliy, “ indeed 1 think she has been paying 
you a visit, Mr, Galbraith, this afternoon.” 

” Paying me a visit!” said Galbraith, looking at his friend in sur- 
prise, ” how do you know that?” 

“I was coming along South Street about an hour ago,” said lit- 
tle't^hatterbox, ” and Mrs. Stanhope’s carriage stopped at your gate. 
The footman went in and came out again, by which I presume you 
was out, sir* indeed 1 may say as I asked ’un and he said you was.” 

Bryceson kicked a stool over and then apologized for it; his friend 
laughed. 

” Mrs. Stanhope drove on, sir, and 1 see she’s returned to South 
Street, and is over at Mr. Bompas’s now; her carriage is a-standin’ 
at his door. You can see it come out o’ South Street if you watches 
through this winder. ” 

“You seem to take a great deal of notice of what goes on about 
here, Mr. Rapsey,” said Galbraith. 

” Yes, Mr. Galbraith, 1 do,” answered Timothy, ‘‘ you see it’s my 
only ockipation nowadays. 1 suppose it was gummat about the 
"'ouse as Mrs. Stanhope wanted to see 3^011 about, sir?” 

For a moment Bryceson looked curiously at the pair; but Gal- 
braith gave no sign of annoyance. ' 

” About the river, Mr Rapsey,” said he,' ” Mrs. Stanhope is going 
to give me the right of fishing in it. But 1 must be going now. 
Come along, Walter. Good- afternoon Mr. Rapsey ” 

Mr. Rapsey watched the two friends crossing the market-place, 
and then gave his mind to tobacco and ale. 

” Been to see me this afternoon, eli?” said Galbraith to Bryceson 
as the}^ walked along: ” what does that mean?” 

” Clear the decks for action, perhaps,” answered Br 3 ^ceson. 

” V'ery likely. Well, she will find us all at our stations when she 
comes.” 

They passed the carriage standing outside*Mr. Bdmpas’s dour, and 
entered at their own gate. At the door they met Edward, who 
looked grave. 

” Dat ar woman been here askin’ for you. Master Harry,” said he. 

” So we hear, Ned; if she comes again show her right in. Any 
one at home?” 

” No, sail, dar ain’t none of ’em come back, but dey won’t be long 
now.” 

The three other occupants of the Coombes had gone for a day’s 
trip to Bath. 

Galbraith and Bryceson entered the room and the negro brought 
them lamps. By their light Bryceson noticed that his friend’s face 
was very set and stern. 

When they had sal for about five minutes quite silent and each 
occupied with his own thoughts, there came a knock at the front 
door. Galbraith turned and pitched his cigar into the fire. Then 
he looked at Walter and laughed. 

” Stand by to repel boarders,” he said, “ 1 want you to stay here 
with me, old fellow. We are all brothers in this.” 

The door opened, and Adelaide Bompas entered the room, fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Stanhope. 

Both men rose. Bryceson handed a chair to Adelaide, who took ' 


236 ' AS AVON FLOWS. 

it without speaking. There was no need of explanation. It wanted 
but one glance at each of the other two to realize the fact that they 
had met for strife. 

And Adelaide, brave as she was, felt her heart grow cold as she 
saw the two hard faces: her’s full of majestic, stately beauty, his lit 
up with the light ot battle and calm as the face of a statue; while 
Bryceson waited for the first words with strained attention, as he 
had sometimes listened for the word “ fire I” as he looked on at 
some wild Western duel. 


; CHAPTER XXXI. 

I AT THE SOUND OF A WELL-KNOWN VOICE. 

There was a difference in the manner of each of these duelists. 
Whilst Galbraith was really calm, Mrs. Stanhope was only appar- 
ently so. She had nerved herself for the encounter, and the effort 
had been a great one. She had been forced to confess to herself that 
her enterprise was desperate, and one thought troubled her more 
than all. She had an hundred-fold more at stake than the man with 
whom she w^as fighting. 

In the old wild days of her Bohemian existence there would have 
been for her no such thing as loss of station to dread. Her rare 
beauty and her gift of song had been the weapons wherewith she 
had faced the world, and faced it successfully too. The surround- 
ings of such a life have a tendency to harden the nerves and 
strengthen the heart of a woman, though very often quite the re- 
verse is the result ot their influence on a man. When she had ex- 
changed this life for the hum-drum existence of a married woman, 
she liad found respectability and regularity intolerable. An in- 
dulgent and fond husband had no attractions for her. To a man 
who was stern, and even harsh to her, she would have clung with 
all the strength of her heart; but she despised the good-natured and 
easy-going Reginald, and fled from him with one unworthy either to 
be compared with him or to be associated with her. The first rush 
of love for her deserted husband had come over her after the deadly 
injury she had done him, for she then first knew that under his 
quiet nature lay high courage and firm resolve. She remembered 
now how her terrified paramour, with face ever white and haod 
ever trembling, had carried her from place to place, from town to 
town, and how the in3ured husband had followed like a sleuth- 
hound, till, in spite of every device, they had found no rest for the 
soles of their feet, and a month’s consecutive residence in one place 
had been a matter of impossibility. Then it had been that, amidst 
this wild scurrying here and there, this constant flight, those starts 
and horrid awakenings in the night; those terror-born glances right 
and left and up and down before venturing out by day, she discov- 
ered that, after all, she loved the pursuing and hated the puisued. 

She remembered how, when at last news was brought her that all 
was over and that they need fear no more, the tide of revulsion 
which had set in in her heart, now filled it with loathing for the part- 
ner ot her crime and pity and affection for the dead. Francois Gre- 
nier had but little cause to triumph after he had told her the story. 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


23? 


In a whirlwind of wild regrets she had torn herself from his era* 
brace and loaded him with reproaches so bitter and scorn so scath- 
ing that they rang in his ears till he died; till the morning when he 
faced Galbraith on tne low-lying sand where the lazy waves of the 
Mosquito Gulf were plashing on the shore, when he felt the blue 
eyes, stern and pitiless, conquer his own, when he gripped his knife 
and tried to feel that he could win the fight; when the face in which 
he could see the likeness to the man whom he had left at Button 
Rouge, shot by treachery, drew nearer and, nearer, and he could 
mark the breadth of those shoulders, and guess at the strength of 
that terrible right arm. The words of his dupe, and the cry of his 
victim were in the ears of Francois Grenier till his last despairing 
stroke was stricken, till his delicate wrist broke in the iron grip of 
the avenger, and the requiting steel went down into his black heart 
as he took the Wages of Sin in full. 

She knew nothing of his fate. She had dreaded his reappearance 
at one time, but the feeling had worn ofi since her husband’s death, 
and even had he appeared, she would have felt secure in her knowl- 
edge of the man’s character and the easy manner in which she could 
have silenced him. But this man was different. 

How inexpressibly dear was her social position to her now! It 
had been but a little kingdom over which she had reigned, but her 
sway had been undisputed and she had been very happy there. 
Nqys^ there was this one struggle to come, and then she must lay 
down scepter and robe and turn her back on her subjects. Oh, for 
one hour of her old wild courage! Civilization had spoiled her for a 
desperate moment like this. She went into the contest with much 
of the same hopelessness with which Francois Grenier had faced the 
very man before whom she stood now. And she could not quit her 
realm without a sigh. The thought of having to leave it had 
nerved her to make one fight against fate and she was here to day 
to make it. 

“You are perhaps surprised to see me here, Mr. Galbraith,” she 
said, for she felt that she must open the business, as he gave no sign 
of doing so. 

“lam not surprised, madam,” said he gravely, “ will you oe 
seated?” 

She took no heed of the invitation, but remained standing by Ad- 
elaide’s side. 

“ Empty courtesies, Mr. Galbraith, will be thrown away between 
us,” said she, “ let us come to the root of the mafter. ” 

“ 1 must decline to pledge myself to. any particular course of ac- 
tion, madam,” said Galbraith, “ but since you are here and seem to 
wisli to speak, 1 will listen to anything you have to say.” 

“You are kind,” she said with a sneer, “ I could at all times 
have insured your doing thaV' 

“ 1 do not think so,” replied he, “ do not assume too much. If we 
are to talk let us have facts. ” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Several things, madam,” he said, sternly, “ for one thing that 1 
can cut short your power of speech in one moment, by calling in the 
aid of the law: for another that no amount of sophistry or rhetoric 
shall move me from the fixed purpose of my life, or destroy the 


/ AS AYOK FLOWS. 


238 

fruits of my patient labor in tracking you for years as I have done. 

are hot on equal terms here, madam, and you know it. Cease 
3 mur acting; it will not serve you now!” 

” Tell me, ” she said, ” what it is you allege against me. Bring 
your accusations! 1 dare you to shake me from my position, and 1 
warn you against the consequences of such an attempt. It will ruin 
you!” 

” I thank you for your warning. 1 do not think you will be able 
to ruin me. Adelaide, 1 do not quite understand your presence here. 
Do you come by your own wish?” 

“Yes, Harry,” said Adelaide, “ I promised 1 would come over. 
Do you not wish me to remain?” 

“Remain,” said Galbraith, after a moment’s pause, “yes, since 
you know the' history, it may be as well. You may hear some things 
that 1 should not have told you otherwise, and it is a dark business 
for you to be mixed up in.” 

“ And now, Mr. Galbraith,” said Mrs. Stanhope, “ will you deign 
me an answer to my question?” 

“ Y^es, madam,” said he, turning to her sharply, “ by asking you 
another. Wiai is youQ^ name f ’ ’ 

She knew the import of the demand, and, steel herself as she 
might, she shrunk from it. She even fenced a little in order to put 
it by, though tor a minute only. 

“ What is my name? Well, that I suppose is the orthodox com- 
mencement. Shall we have the rest of the catechism to follow? 
Mr. Bryeeson, do you know your catechism?” 

Of all foolish speeches this was the most foolish she could have 
made. But the question and its gravity had unnerved her and the 
words dropped from her lips half hysterically. Her enemy was 
stronger than she. 

Bryceson’s face was as grave as that of his friend. He was in no 
mood for trilling, but he answered, 

“ I know sufficient of it to be able to prompt you, madam, in case 
your memory should fail.” 

She looked from one to the other and read the significance of their 
faces. She must flee or fight. Let her fight. 

“ Siicli a question is absurd ; , every one in the town will answer it 
for you.” 

“ Madam,” said Galbraith, “ 1 will ask the question in the town 
to-morrow morning, for it is ail important that I should know the 
answer to it. 1 will set at rest a doubt which has puzzled me a good 
deal lately. Indeed, ever since the morning on which 1 was intro- 
duced to you at Avonliam Road Station. And, trust me, that when 
you learn the method in which 1 shall pursue my inquiry, you will 
regret that you did not answer me yourself.” 

She stood a few moments without speaking. His eyes never left 
her lace; he rang the bell. 

“Stop!” she cried, moving a step toward him, “what are you 
going to do?” 

“ Madam,” answered he, “ our interview is at an end; without a 
reply to that question 1 can hold no f urtlier communication with 
you. 1 will not be defied and 1 will have that answer!” 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 239 

The door opened and Edward appeared. Bryceson gave a glance 
at tier face, and then motioned him away. 

“ 1 will answer you that question, she said, when Edward had 
retired, “ and you will see then that you have nothing to say con- 
cerning my position. 1 am Laura Constance Stanhope. Tou are at 
fault at once!” 

” That is the answer 1 expected to receive; 1 warn you that you 
will have to substantiate it by evdence.” 

” I am able to do so, Mr. Galbraith, 1 can bid defiance to you all. 
You are defied now!” 

” 1 accept your defiance. You were married in the name of Wild- 
ing?” 

” That is true.” 

” Laura Constance Wilding, widow, 1 read in the register.” 

That is also true.” 

” You believed Wilding, your first husband, to be dead?” 

1 still believe him to be dead,” said she, but her voice shook as 
she said it. 

” Oh, the wind sits in that quarter, does it? Well, you shall see 
him and satisfy yourself on the point!” 

” It is false. 1 had complete evidence of his death in America.” 

” I will furnish you with satisfactory evidence of his being alive, 
and in Avonham.” 

Her cheeks turned paler and her arm trembled as she laid her hand 
on the back of the chair which she had at first refused to take. She 
sat down now and took a long breath before she slowly said, 

” Even if that were true, it would not alter the circumstances. He 
has no claim on me.” 

” ISfo claim to be your husband, do you mean?” asked Galbraith. 

“Yes, no claim to consider himself as my husband,” ^e an- 
swered. 

“You wish then to lead us to infer that you obtained a divorce in 
America?” 

” 1 will not leave you iif any doubt upon the subject,” answered 
she in a low voice. 

There was a pause of silence in the room, and then Gabriel spoke. 

“We will then, it you please, leave the matter where it is until 
we receive that proof. When that is furnished we can consider what 
to do. And, understand me, madam, 1 am not pledged that the 
matter shall rest there. You say you believe in Reginald Wilding’s 
death. Go home, and thank God that he is alive and that you are 
in his hands as well as in mine. ” 

She rose from her seat and looked steadily at him without speak- 
ing. Bryceson stepped to the door to open it for her to pass. 

At that moment the front door, was opened and the joyous laugh 
of Fred Markham sounded in the hall. In answer to some merry re- 
mark the soft, half -sad voice of Reginald Wilding was heard. Mrs. 
Stanhope started back, with a low cry, and clung to Adelaide. 

“ Whose voice is that?” she said in a hoarse whisper. 

Bryceson opened the door and beckoned to the party. At the en- 
trance appeared the clear calna features of the restored man, and he 
came forward, while the guilty woman started further away in dread. 

He saw her; and over his "face rushed such a cloud and such a 


240 


AS AYO^Sr FLOWS. 


surge of blood seemed to sweep bis cheeks, and such a deadly pallor 
followed, that his brother staited forward in alarm and seized his 
arm. But he steadieil himself, and drew from his side, and stepped 
in front of her. 

“ Constance!” he said. 

And at the word the proud heart was smitten, the lofty spirit was 
humbled, and the imperious beauty flung herself at his feet with a 
great cry. 

“ Oh, Reginald, my darling! 1 have sinned, but I have suffered! 
When 1 lost you 1 loved you first. 1 thought you dead, and dead 
through me, and my wicked heart broke and my new heart was 
born! Oh, my old love, come to my new heart, and do not send me 
away!” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

AFTER MANY YEARS. 

More persons were witnesses of Mrs. Stanhope’s humiliation than 
the party of the house. Mr. Bompas and Dr. Mompesson had ac- 
companied the young men and the squire across the road, and were 
thus present at the scene. It was a strange one to all, but to two 
members ot the company it was little short of marvelous. All 
doubts were cleared up now: there was confession in every wailed 
word that fell from the lips of the woman up to whom they had 
looked as up* to a being from another sphere. All in the room were 
affected by the sight, each in his own way. The laugh had died 
from Markham’s lips; Bryceson looked sympathetic; the tears stood 
in Adelaide’s eyes, and she turned and laid her hand on Galbraith’s 
arm, and drew close to his side as if pleading for mercy. The doc- 
tor and Mr. Bompas looked on with white and sorrow-stricken 
faces, whilst the old squire seemed anxious chiefly for Reginald 
Wilding’s sake. Reginald, after his first great heart-leap, was calm, 
his handsome face was lit by a strange ligfft, and once more he ap- 
peared to his old comrades as he was before the dark cloud came 
down over his life. In his eyes his brother could read more love 
than reproof, Out so great was Galbraith’s command of feature that 
by looking at him nothing could be learned of his inner thoughts, 
save that the business on hand was grave and serious to a degree. 

After the wild outburst of the woman brought to bay, there was 
a silence which no one seemed inclined to break; at last Reginald 
Wilding spoke, and his voice was singularly calm and sweet. 

” Rise, Constance! come, 1 will not talk to you unless you get up 
from the ground.” 

He raised her and she sat again in the chair she had just quitted. 
Galbraith looked over to the doctor, who came across the room and 
took his stand next to his patient and spoke a few words to her in 
a low tone, but she shook her head and motioned him away. He 
did not go, however, but remained beside her. 

” Do you know, Constance,” said Reginald, where 1 have been 
for the last twelve years?” 

She shook her head and raised her eyes to his face, but made no 
answer in words. 


AS AVON FLOWS. 241 

, ** Listen, and 1 will tell you, and tlien let my friends and yours 
j udge bet ween us. ’ * 

She cast dow^ her eyes again, and waited for his words without a 
sign. 

“ 1 married you and loved you dearly; how dearly 1 think you 
will never know. How you requited me you do know. God 
knows 1 never made boast of myself, but 1 would have held my 
own against Francois' Grenier, m aught but his treacheiy and vice. 
You left me tor a low gambler, a coward and a murderer; left all 
my great love and threw away your beauty and your soul on him.’^ 

She crouched in her seat as though his words were physical blows 
and she were shrinking from them. 

Did you think that 1 would sit down with my wrong? or were 
you persuaded that 1 would? The race from which 1 spring has 
not begun to produce cowards yet. I think you found that my 
pursuit of you, during one year, was as unremitting a chase as even 
southern bloocl could have carried out. At last 1 came up with the 
man^who had wrecked my happiness and broke up my home. 1 
shouKl have known that he who was a traitor in one thing would 
be a traitor in all, but 1 gave the man a meeting as though he had 
been an honorable man. Did you hear from him that he shot me 
as 1 turned to walk to m.y place, and that he came and kicked mj?- 
body, as 1 lay there, as he thought, dead? Did your cavalier tell 
you that?"' 

Again no answer; only she raised her head as though about to 
speak, and then settled back to her old position. 

“ When 1 came to myself 1 was in an hospital. That was not tor 
long. 1 was to suffer far worse than that for having loved too well. 
For twelve years, twelve long terrible years 1 have been in the tomb 
of a living death; 1 have been a madman amongst madmen, an out- 
cast from the world, 1 have dragged on for eleven years in a mad- 
house, and it is thanks to an accidental recognition, a circumstance 
so wonderful in its bringing about, that 1 fear to speak of it; to the 
matchless skill of my dear old friend here, and to the joy 1 felt at 
the sight of my beloved brother, that 1 am here to-day. My brother 
himself, who would have given his life for me, and who, mark me, 
did in requital of my wrongs risk it; my brother who is by my side 
now, has mourned for me as one dead until a few months ago. 
This nas been my penalty for marrying you ; this is the fate you 
dealt oat to one whose only crime was that he loved you. Do you 
ask him to love you again? He has no second life for you to mar.’" 

For the first time, she answered him, “ 1 did not know; 1 thought 
you dead ; 1 even tried to see you but 1 could not find you. When 
— that man — told me of your death, the words in which he told of 
it were the last he spoke to me. 1 cursed him for killing you, 
Reginald, and 1 cast myself free from him forever!” 

The deep voice of Galbraith broke in here, and the contrast with 
his brother’s tones was so great that it made her start. 

“ Were you married to Francois Grenier at that time?” said he. 

”No.” 

She crimsoned as she spoke, and^is she saw Adelaide involun- 
tarily shrink from her. 


242 AS AYOK FLOWS. 

''Yet you were divorced from Reginald?’’ said the stern voice 
again. 

“Yes.” 

He was Silent. 

“ 1 do not know,” she said, “ and 1 will swear it by all that is 
sacred; 1 do not know what became of Francois Grenier after we 
parted in Baton Rouge. 1 have never seen him since.” 

“Well, 1 will do y"oii the justice to say in the presence of these 
gentlemen;” he pointed to Dr. Mompesson and Mr. Bompas, “ that 
your asseveration tallies with his own story of the matter.” 

“ You have seen him?” said she, with a startled look at him, 

“ you have seen Francois Grenier?” 

“ 1 have seen Frangois Grenier,” said he, with a look at her be- 
fore which she quailed. 

“ Where did you see him?” this in a whisper such as a woman 
speaks in when she names a ghost. 

“ It is enough for vou that I have seen him,” said'Galbraith. with 
a glance toward Adelaide. 

“ Is he — ?” she did not complete the question, for she saw his 
glance and understood it. 

“He is dead,” he answered, “he died some time ago; when 1 
meet you again 1 will tell you. particulars of his end. Do not ask 
me any more concerning him now.” 

She shivered at the sound of the cold grave words, for she knew 
their import well. This man would not shock the ears of the 
woman he loved by mention of the wild deed, but she knew, as well 
as though she had seen the affray, that he had done execution on 
the man who had wronged his brother. Her helplessness against 
these men struck her for the first time. The man who bad not 
spared her partner in guilt had told her that, left to himself, he 
would not have spared her. In utter despair she rose from her seat. 

“ 1 will go,” said she, “ 1 can struggle no longer against you; I 
yield myself to your hands; wha( do you require of me? Tell me 
and 1 will do it.” 

For the first time she caught sight of the face of the old squire, 
who stood with his hands clasped behind him, a silent spectator of 
the scene. 

“ I remember you,” she said, “ you are Reginald’s old friend. Is 
it you who restored him to health?” 

“ Under God’s hand, madam,” he said, “ I have been the humble 
means of his being free. ' ’ 

“You are a good man,” she said, “ you always were. Are you - 
so good that you cannot feel any pity for me.” 

“ Madam,” replied the old squire, “ 1 were not a good man if 1 
denied to any what 1 daily need myself.” 

“ Have a little pity on me then,” she adds with a weary sigh, 

“ for indeed ! need it sorely.” 

She was quite broken now ; her face looked changed and drawn 
an(T haggard, and the light had gone out of her glorious eyes ; she 
was pleading now, and Adelaide, touched as she was by the scene 
of the woman’s humbled pride,|jelt a quiet joy springing up in her 
heart, as she saw the faces of her lover and his friends soften and 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 243 

fill with commiseration for her; she was standing alone against them 
all. Tney were noble toes, she thought. 

“ These men are just,” Mrs. Stanhope went on, addressing the old 
’squire, “ but they are very hard. They do not consider the years of 
suffering, they do not reckon the pain of penitence.” 

She spoke as one whose sense was partly deadened by some heavy 
blow, and her voice was strange and hollow. 

” 1 think 1 must have been mad when 1 ran away with Fran 9 ois 
Grenier, for Reginald had been very kind to me. 1 have often 
thought of him and of the old days. Now 1 could be happy in that 
quiet life; but 1 was a wild bird then, and my home was a cage in 
which 1 did not care to stay. 1 was not all bad. 1 was only weary, 
intensely weary of my life. He was not a good man with whom 1 
went away. Not so good as he whom 1 left. When he told me 
that he had been challenged by Reginald, and that in a duel he had 
shot and killed him, I drove him from me as 1 told you. 1 never 
saw him again. 1 think he went to New Orleans. He was a bad 
man, he tempted me from my home. He got iha divorce from a 
court in Louisiana. A lawyer got it for him. Then he wanted me 
to marry him but 1 would not. Now you tell me he is dead. ” 

She turned her eyes for a moment to Galbraith, who silently 
bowed his head in sign of acquiescence. 

” Bad as he was,” she resumed, ” he was the only protector 1 had 
then, and when 1 turned him away 1 was alone in the world. 1 
had three years of weary wandering and tiring toil, until 1 had 
made and put by a little money, and then I came to England to 
turn my back on the old life and lead a new one here.” 

She spoke now in a firmer tone and with some show of her accus- 
tomed haughty air. 

” 1 have done so. I have led a new life. There is no man who 
can point finger at me or carp at the actions of one hour that 1 have 
spent in England. 1 call to witness for me, sir, the two gentlemen 
who stand by you now. 1 think if you went into the streets of this 
town the poor would speak for me. I think that when it is known 
here how 1 have fallen, many hearts will be sorry for me. That is 
why 1 ask you for pity, and this is the thing I ask. 1 will not resist 
you. But let me go away quietly before you proclaim my shame. 
Remember what a blow I have just received; though perhaps it was 
better for the poor boy to die, than to live to marry such an one as 
1. And the memory of my last husband is dear in this place. And 
one thing more; it will harden the hearts of those who would do 
good, and the hearts of those who need help. They will say that 
all charity is bad, and that it was only my cloak. God knows 1 
tried to be good. God knows 1 have repented. Have a little pity 
on me as you hope He will have pity on you.” 

And with bo’wed head and clasped hands she left them, her faith- 
ful friend Dr. Mompesson going out with her. 

When the party in the room had heard the door close behind them 
without the silence having been broken, Adelaide went across to 
where Reginald Wilding was standing. All in the room were under 
the influence ol the emotions which the statements of Reginald and 
the appeal of Mrs. Stanhope had excited. 

“ ^ou wiH have mercy on her, brother,” said Adelaide, laying 


244 


AS AVON FLOWS. 


her hand gently on Reginald's own. ** 1 know how much you have 
suffered, but, remember! she has suffered too; and we have seen 
her here so good to all around her, that any harm to her would be a 
great blow to us all. You have been mercifully restored to us all, 
and out of gratitude for that 1 would ask you to show, forgiveness. 
Do not refuse me, Reginald! Harry will not stand between me and 
my request, 1 am sure.” 

“No, Adelaide,” said Galbraith, “1 will even support you in 
your plea, and love you the more lor pleading.” 

Reginald took Adelaide’s hands in his, and kissed her. on the 
forehead. 

“ it shall be as you wish, dear sister, ” said he in a low voice. 
“ 1 will forgive her. IShe shall never receive any harm at my hands. 
We have, both of us, suffered enough!” 

chapter XXXIll. 

A SEVERE test OF MR. TIMOTHY RAPSEY’S NERVES. 

“ He has lain for two days in a state of utter senselessness, and 
now that he is conscious, he seems so weak and prostrated, that the 
doctor is very anxious concerning him. It is very good of you, 
Millard, to have come over, and especially kind of you, Mr. Gal- 
braith, after what has happened. The result of the trial was a great 
blow to him; much greater than 1 can quite comprehend, for, al- 
though they were certainly friendly, yet 1 was not aware that 
Adolphus and Mr. Shelman were on closer terms of intimacy than 
that of companions. Indeed 1 think 1 have heard Adolphus say that 
Shelman held himself somewhat above him.” 

The speaker was the Reverend Mr. Carter, the father of Adolphus, 
and his auditors, somewhat to his astonishment, had ridden over to- 
gether to see his son, whom we last saw swooning in the court- 
house at Ridgetown. 

Mr. Millard seemed constrained in his manner, 'and replied vague- 
ly on the account of Adolphus Carter’s illness. He glanced at Gal- 
braith as though to seek for instructions from him. Galbraith turned 
to the father and said : 

“ 1 regret very much to hear that your son is so ill. It is a mat- 
ter of the very highest importance that 1 should see him. I hope 
he is not so bad that 1 cannot do so.” 

“ Ho, Mr. Galbraith, you can see him,” said Mr. Carter, “ 1 trust 
however you have no agitating news for him.” 

Galbraith did not answer ; he rose to his feet and waited to be 
shown to the patient. 

“ He is in the room behind this,” said Mr. Carter, ringing the 
bell, “ show this gentleman in to Mr. Adolphus,” said he to a serv- 
ant, who appeared in answer to his summons. 

Galbraith bowed and left the room with the servant, whilst Mr. 
Carter turning to Mr. Millard, said in an agitated voice, “Do you 
know what Mr. Galbraith’s business is?” 

“ Only partly,” answered Millard, in a hesitating manner, “he 
wantSv 1 know, to question him concerning this unhappy affair, but 


AS AVOI^ FLOWS. 


245 


■what his intention in doing so is I do not know. He particularly 
requested me to ride over with him and 1 did so.” 

Mr. Carter turned pale, and laid an unsteady hand on his friend’s 
shoulder. 

“ 1 trust, in Heaven’s name, that no heavier blow is going to fall 
on us through my unhappy boy’s misdeeds.” 

“ What do you mean?” asked Mr. Millard, ” I hope things will 
turn to better all round.” 

” What unhappy afiair do you allude to, about which Mr. Gal- 
braith wishes to question Adolphus?” 

” The attack on his house; and your boy having lost his place at 
Bompas’s of. course!” answered Mr. Millard. 

Mr. Carter laughed nervously. 

” 1 am a little upset, I think, Millard; I was afraid you might 
mean something else.” 

” No, certainly not,” said Mr. Millard in some astonishment, 
” what else should I mean?’ 

Mr. Carter made no answer to this, but pressed refreshments on 
his friend and entered into ordinary conversation on country-side 
topics, seeming somewhat relieved by Mr. Millard’s answer, mean- 
while Galbraith had entered the room in which Adolphus Carter 
was. 

He was seated in a chair, the back of which was turned toward 
the window, so that the light did not strike his face, but was full 
in that of any one entering the room. Galbraith noted, however, 
with those keen calm eyes of his, how he started at his entrance, 
and how a look of dread of danger came over his face, which was 
so white and haggard that it could not be said to turn pale; he noted, 
too, the immense change that had come over the once dapper, spright-^ 
ly, fascinating articled pupil. He seemed to have shrunk physically 
and mentally. Never commanding or striking in appearance, he 
now looked abject, and the only sign about him of mental activity 
was a look of terror in his eyes which his visitor had often seen in 
those of a hunted animal. 

” Do not rise from your seat,” said Galbraith, as Carter made 
some movement as though about to do so. 

” Thank you,” said Carter, with a feeble attempt at a smile. “ 1 
am not at all well.” 

” So 1 see,” said Galbraith, gravely, ‘‘but well or ill, 1 must 
have some important talk with you.” 

The wild hunted look changed to one of deeper alarm, and a sniver 
seized the frame of Carter. During the whole of the rest of the in- 
terview this never left him; he sat trembling and shaking in terror 
and with every sign upon him of the most intense dread of his in- 
terlocutor. 

” 1 have been away in America,” said Galbraith; ‘‘you know 
what has happened in Avonham since 1 went away ?” 

“Yes,” said Carter, in a hollow voice, scarcely raised above a 
whisper. 

” 1 saw you in the court the other day, when your friend Shelman 
was being tried. Did you see me?” 

” Yes, once.” Still in the same tone and with the same sense of 
horror on him. 


246 


AS AYOl^ FLO#S. 

“ 1 watched you very attentively during the time that the jury 
were absent; and, 1 know not what put it into my head, but 1 de- 
termined to ride over here and ask you a certain question/’ 

The look oi dread changed to one ot sheer despair, and the un- 
happy young man made a deprecatory gesture with his hands, as 
though he feebly strove to ward ofi a blow that he knew Was be- 
yond his strength to endure. 

“ 1 do not wish to agitate you unduly, or to take advantage of 
your state, but the life ot a man is at stake; the life of a man who 
is po friend of mine, but whose affairs, through you, have been in- 
terwoven with mine. A man, too, whom I believe to be innocent 
of the crime laid to his charge.” 

No change in the face —still despair; the hunted animal would not 
turn to bay. 

“ This is the question 1 wish to ask you; listen to it! For, as God 
is my judge, I believe that you, and you only can answer it. Who 
killed Walter RwersV 

Then into the terror-stricken face and into the wild-looking eyes 
came a great calm; came a sense of laying down a heavy burden; 
came the sign of resignation to a fate against which the man had 
been struggling in a fight in which he had been sorely beaten, and 
it was with a softened face, the face of a child who confesses to a 
mother, that he answered, with a firmer voice, ” 1 did.” 

Then he sunk back in his seat, and the weight of his secret rolled 
from him and he smiled. A sad smile. A smile that was ill to see. 

not move from your seat,” said Galbraith, as he stepped 
backward and opened the door of the room. “ Mr. Millard! come 
here.” 

In a twinkling Mr. Millard and the father of the self-acknowledged 
murderer ran into the room. The sharp \pnes of Galbraith’s voice 
had startled them both, and each had feared that some alarming 
change in the sick man’s state had been the cause of the summons. 
But when they entered, they saw the patient and his visitor parted 
by almost the whole breadth of the apartment; they knew that no 
physical matter had called them there. The heart of the father first 
felt what had occurred. Mr. Carter looked at Galbraith with much 
of the same light in his eyes that had been in those of his son, and 
said: 

” What is it, Mr. Galbraith? for mercy’s sake tell me what has 
happened?” 

Galbraith turned to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder : there 
was a look oi infinite pity in his eves. 

” God knows,” he said, “ 1 would have spared you this. 1 call 
Him to witness 1 have not brought this upon you willingly!” 

‘‘Sit down, father,” said Carter, with an effort, ”1 must have 
told you this, I think, to-day, even if Mr. Galbraith had not come.” 

“My boy!” said Mr. Carter, seating himself by his son’s side, 
“ what is it that you have to tell?” 

“Mr. Millard,” said Carter, “you are a magistrate; take down 
what 1 have to say; for 1 think 1 have not long to live. 1 am 
stricken with death, and 1 must do right before 1 die.” 

With a look of much amazement, Mr. Millard seated himself at the 
table, on which there were writing matenals; Galbraith remained 


247 


AS AYOK FLOWS. 

standing at his side; Mr. Carter sat by his son, looking at him with 
terrible earnestness. At the first words his boy spoke he gave a shaip 
low cry, and covered his face with his hands, as though to shut out 
from his sight the guilty one whom he had loved. 

“ I killed Walter Rivers. 1 shot him~l shot him by mistake — ** 

“ Do you mean ‘ by accident,' " said Galbraith, “ when jou say 
‘ by mistake?’ ” 

Carter shook his head. 

“No,” said he, “ 1 do not mean by accident — 1 mean by mistake. 
I— 1 thought he was Shelman.” 

“ Good God!” muttered Mr. Millard below his breath. 

“ 1 will tell you all about it,” said Carter, nerving himself for the 
task, and speaking in a firmer voice. “1 was Shelman’s tool in 
that matter of the election riot. It was he, as 1 have already told 
Mr. Bryceson and your other friends, who planned, with me, the 
attack on your house, Mr. Galbraith. It was really his fault that 
any liot took place at all. He started the idea of giving drink away 
for nothing to our side, and refusing it to the Blues. "That caused 
the riot. Then I took the i%n down South Street, and led them to 
the Coombes. You know what took place there. You have heard 
also what passed between Mr. Bryceson and me at the Bear Hotel.” 

“ Yes, 1 have heard all that,” said Galbraith, to whom Adolphus 
had addressed himself. 

“ Then came the quarrel between Mr. Bryceson and Shelman, and 
through what came out about that afterward Mr. Bompas sent me 
away. 1 had lost more than a mere chance, and had more than a 
commercial position at stake at Mr. Bom pas’s, andl think the knowl- 
edge of what 1 had really lost drove me mad. At any rate, 1 swore 
to be revenged on Alfred Shelman for my wrongs. 1 used to go 
about here brooding over the injury he had done me, till my brain 
was turned, 1 think.” 

He paused for breath. Galbraith lifted a glass containing wine to 
his lips, but he put it away with his hand 

“ On the afternoon of the— of the day when — when Rivers was 
shot— 1 was up at Downholmes. 1 had my gun with me. 1 had 
walked round the hills. It was getting foggy and 1 met no one. 1 
was out trying tor rabbits, just to amuse myself, but I did not see 
one. 1 heard some one shooting in Downholmes. 1 Knew it must 
be Shelman and I watched for him. I saw him go to your keeper’s 
cottage, and when he went across the fields 1 waited for at least ten 
minutes and then followed him. When 1 came up to the bridge 1 
saw him, as 1 thought— standing there with his gun in his hand. 1 
could not control myself, and, as 1 came up and he turned round at 
the sound of my footsteps, 1 raised my gun to my shoulder and fired 
both barrels at him. 

Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead as he told 
his horrible tale. 

“ He threw his arms up and fell headlong down the bank with- 
out a cry : 1 saw the gun fall from his hands into the river. I turned 
and went back toward Downholmes. When I got to the path by 
the wood 1* heard some one shouting from the river bank. Then 1 
knew the body was found. 1 got on to the Bath road and walked 
home as quietly as 1 could, and even spuke to one or two people 


248 


AS AVOl^ FLOWS. 


whom 1 met near the village. 1 had not much fear of being discov- 
ered; I can hardly describe how 1 felt after I had done it. 1 felt as 
if a weight were off my mind and yet 1 felt that 1 must go and look 
at the place where I had seen him fall. 1 made up my mind to do 
so next morning. I went to bed. 1 hope I am going to die, for I 
would not live with the fearful nights 1 have had ever since. 

He raised his hand to wipe his brow and waited a little before 
resuming. 

“lire next morning 1 went into Avonham. Then 1 heard the 
news. 1 never had any idea that it was not Shelman whom 1 had 
shot, and 1 was going to pretend that I knew nothing of what had 
happened, and that 1 was going to call upon him. When I got into 
Avonham 1 could not make out at first what people were talking 
over. 1 heard them talk about Shelman being arrested and Rivers 
shot, and 1 did not believe my own ears. Then my horror began. 
1 have had that dead man with me ever since. But you know the 
truth now and he may leave me for the little while 1 have to live, for 
this has killed me. 1 was a coward not to speak, but 1 tried to per- 
suade myself that this was the revenge wanted, that 1 had meant 
to kill him and that 1 could kill him by keeping silent ; and 1 did so. 
But the other man has been a dreadful companion, and if they hang 
Alfred Shelman there will be two of them! They must not do that 
though; even though 1 should get well and they should hang me, 1 
must do him right. May God forgive me for what 1 have done! 
Father, -Jry to forgive me, for my punishment has been very severe. ” 

s* * * -Jr * * * 

In a few days he had gone before a higher tribunal than we have 
here. But not before right had been done. Working with secrecy 
but with energy they caused the confession of the murderer to be 
repeated to men high in authority, and the facts to be laid before the 
Home Secretary. Before death claimed Adolphus Carter he had, 
in the most solemn manner, reiterated to his representative the state- 
ment he had made to Galbraith, Mr. Millard and his father. He 
died without having fallen into the hands of the law. A weak young 
man, made bad through circumstances. That his secret would have 
been safe is without doubt, and the best proof of the truth of that is 
the unbounded surprise with which the officials concerned in the case 
saw the strong chain of circumstantial evidence break, and the fab- 
ric of proof which had been raised, tumble about their ears. Even 
they, however, did not doubt the truth of the confession, and Alfred 
Shelman “ received a free pardon,” which, considering that he w^as 
not guilty of the crime with which he was charged, showed great 
consideration on the part of the advisers and law-officers of the 
Crown. 

* * * * * * * 

On the afternoon of the day preceding that which had been fixed 
tor Alfred Shelman’s execution, Mr. Timothy Rapsey, Mr. John 
Rann, to whom he was now reconciled, the brothers Pye, Mr. Polli- 
moy, and ex-Mayor Killett, were assembled at the Bear smok- 
ing-room; where also sat the landlord. There was but one topic of 
conversation, and that was the event which was to take place on the 
following day; for so well bad, the secret been kept by Mr. Sennett, 


AS AVON PLOWS. 


249 


who had been at once consulted by Mr. Millard, that no one in Avon- 
ham knew what had taken place. Twenty-five years ago Avonham 
had no railway station; much less theretore had she a newspaper 
train; nor was the correspondent so ubiquitous as at present; so, as 
yet, none but the officials concerned knew anything of the efiorts 
that had been made to secure the release of bhelman. 

It had been generally agreed, much to the secret dissatisfaction 
of Timothy Kapsey, that the presence of any of the reputable den- 
izens of Avonham at the execution would be an outrage on the feel- 
ings of the town. And^ now that the fatal hour was approaching, 
public f eeling— the edge of its indignation having been dulled by the 
lapse of time — had begun to express itself in terms of pity for the 
culprit. All admitted tbe justice of the sentence, — with the solitary , 
exception of John Kann, who still stoutly clung to his belief in 
Shelman’s innocence— all had sympathy with the victim and with 
Mrs. Stanhope, and the general sense of abhorrence for the crime was 
undiminished; but they had begun — now that they could count the 
remaining hours of the culprit’s life — to show pity, and to speak of 
him as “ poor fellow.” And, assuredly, had any of the old cronies 
expressed his intention of going to witness the last scene in the 
” Avonham murder,” he would have had to face the remonstrances 
of his fellows, and, if he had gone, their indignation at such callous 
conduct. 

” What time do ’em hang at Ridgetown, in general, Mr. Ranu?” 
asked Timothy Rapsey. 

” 1 ’ain’t never bin hung there,” said John Rann snappishly, 

” ask some one as knows.” 

” I was told in London,” said the wanderer Pollimoy, “ that there 
their time was eight o’clock in the morning.” 

“And it’ll most likely be the same hour at Ridgetown,” said 
Wolstenholme Pye, ” ah, the very same hour.” 

” The same hour, and no other’ll be the time at Ridgetown,” said 
Ploppenner Pye, no other and no else.” 

” Tell me, Mr, Rann,” said Killett, ” tor if there be a man in 
Avonham as do know it’ll surely be you; what do become of all Mr. 
Shelman’s money, and land, and houses? Can ’a leave it to whoever 
’ave a mind to?” 

Smoking-room law is generally very bad law, it must be borne in 
mind. 

John Rann was greatly pleased at the compliment paid him by the 
ex-mayor; he took his pipe out of his mouth, laid it down on the 
table, and set himself to answer the question right willingly. 

” Whoy!” he began. “ You ’m right, Mr. Killett, about my bein’ 
able to tell ’ee; and tell ’ee 1 will. Mr. Alfred Shelman— poor fel- 
low — ain’t got no more of the doin’s of his money than what you 
and me have, sir. It do all goo to the Queen, every penny of it, as 
sure as you set there.” 

“ ’Od rot it all,” said Killett, “ that do seem purely hard for sure. 
How be that, Mr. Rann?” 

Because,” said Mr. Rann impressively and slowly, and emphasize 
ing every word with a little tap of his forefinger on the table, “be- 
cause, Mr. Shelman, in the eyes o’ the law, sir, is a dead man!” 


250 AS AVOK FLOWS. 

A.t the word “man,” Mr. Raun gave a slapot his hand that made 
Timothy Rapsey start. 

“ Lord sakes, is ’a?” said he, “ fancy a sittin’ an’ a talkin’ about 
a dead man as is alive. Lor! it do almost make ’ee feel as ef his 
ghost ’ud walk in at the door.” 

” Nonsense about ghosts,” said Mr. Pollimoy, “ in all my travels 
did 1 ever see one? No!” 

“Ah,” said Timothy, looking wondrous wise, “I wouldn’t like 
to say as there wasn’t such things, mind ’ee. I’ve never seen one 
myself, ’tis true, but there’s never any knowin’ what might happen. 
’Tis queer times about for quiet folk hereaway. Pinnifier, whatever 
do make that door swing open?” 

“ The wind, 1 reckon,” said Pinniffer, getting up to shut it, “ the 
lock do want seein’ to as well.” 

“ Ghosts!” resumed. Ml. Pollimoy, “ there may ’a bin such things 
in times byegone, but if there were, they were ghosts o’ dead men, 
1 reckon. Now this ’ere man ain't dead.” 

“ In the eyes o’ the law he is,” said Timothy quickly, anxious to 
propitiate his old antagonist; “ didn’t ’ee hear Mr. Rann say so? If 
’a ’s dead in the eyes o’ the law, why can’t a’ ha’ a ghost in the eyes o’ 
the law?” Mr. John Rann, far from being pleased by this speech, 
regarded Timothy Rapsey with a looli of great and lofty scorn, and 
was, apparently, about to utter some scathing remark, when Pin- 
niffer took up the conversation. 

“ I’ll tell ’ee something about ghosts,” said the ex-fusileer, “ as 
perhaps ’ll astonish ’ee, be it who it may; it happened to a man as 
was a great friend o’ mine, and sergeant-major in the eighty-first 
foot — 

The evening was drawing in. The lamps w^erenotlit. The mind 
of every man in the company was full of thoughts of death; each 
man in the room had been brought up in a country full of ghost 
stories, and each "was as superstitious as could be. These were the 
conditions under which Mr.Thnnifler commenced a legend which he 
was destined never to finish. 

“ This man was serving in India at the time,” said he, “ and one 
of the men underhim was a wild, fiery, bad-tempered fellow as never 
had hardly a civil word for any one — ” 

The brothers Pye got a little closer together and laid their pipes 
down. 

” This ill-conditioned man one day was punished by the captain 
of his company for some offense, and confined to barracks. He 
made as much fuss over it as if he had been ordered out for fifty 
laslies, and one day when the captain was a-crossing the barrack com- 
pound, he went in and got hold of a loaded musket and let drive at 
him. My friend, Tom Floyd, was standing close by, and just as he 
pulled trigger, Tom jumps forward and catches him a crack o’ 
the side o’ the head with his fist and spoils his aim, so that he 
misses his captain; then of course Tom took him and called for help, 
and the man was put in the clink. Of course he was tried by court 
martial, and equally, of course, the sentence was death.” 

“ Of course,” said Rann, wiith the air of a deputy judge advocate 
general. 

“ Well,” pursued Pinnifter, “ the thing that preyed on this man’s 


AS AVOK FLOWS. 


251 


mind was that Tom had prevented him trom shooting his officer, and 
when the sentence was given, and Tom was taking the man to the 
cells to wait his execution, he said to Tom, ‘ You’ve balked me o’ 
my revenge, Sergeant-Major,’ he said, * and it shall be the worse 
for you. I’ll haunt you living, and I’ll haunt you dead.’ ” 

“ Lor!” said the brothers Pye simultaneously, in an awe-stricken 
undertone. 

” The very night before the man’s execution,” resumed Pinniffer, 
“ which was to take place the following morning at six o’clock, Tom 
Floyd and some of his mates were sitting together and talking over 
the affair the same as we have been doing now. All of a sudden 
the door — ” 

HO'OH!”suddenly shrieked Timothy Rapsey, springing to his 
feet and pointing wildly to the door, “ Oh Lord! look there!” 

The comrades sprung to their feet as Timothy fell back in his 
chair, and not a man of them but thought he felt his heart stand 
still as they saw the door open and Alfred Shelman standing on the 
threshold. He was followed into the room by Galbraith, who 
laughed as he gazed at the startled group. 

” 1 cannot wonder at your surprise,” said Shelman, ‘‘for 1 am 
almost as much astonished at my own deliverance as you can be; 
Pinniffer, I must ask you to put me up to-night, and let me have a 
private room. My own house is closed, and my uncle is out of 
Avonham. Rann, 1 hear that you have been the only one in the 
place to stand up for me, give me your hand. Thanks to this gen- 
tleman,” turning and laying his hand on Galbraith’s shoulder, ” 1 
can, stand before you a free man. An innocent one 1 always was, 
but my innocence has been proved and 1 am free once more, tbank 
God!” 

When Pinniffer came down stairs from showing Alfred Shelman 
his rooms, he found that it had been absolutely necessary to give 
Timothy Rapsey a glass of neat brandy to steady his nerves. And 
in order that he might not feel awkward, his cronies each had one 
as well. 

When he found this, Mr. Pinniffer murmured that they Had all 
been in the same boat for the matter of that, and filled himself one 
for his own use. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

OLD MAS’r KILLETT SUMS UP. 

Five years had passed away since the incidents of our tale, now 
drawing to a close. It was a fine spring morning, and, on the bridge 
which was the pride of Avonham, a little group of townsfolk was 
gathered. There had been a freshet, which for two or three days 
had swollen the Avon till it had left its bed, and wandered into the 
low town, to the great discomfort ot the inhabitants ol the quarter. 
Mr. Follwell, who was mayor this year, had, with what Avonham 
considered great public spirit, consulted an engineer, who had given 
his opinion that the errant river could easily be restrained. He had 


262 


AS AVOI^^ FLOWS. 


finished a short toui of inspection, and was now standing on the 
bridge with the mayor, Mr. Timothy Rapsey (who had been seeking 
practical intormation), Wolstenholmeand Hoppennei Pye, old MasT 
Killett and his son, and Mr. Pollimoy. Business having been dis- 
posed of, the visitor had been asking questions in his turn. A lady 
and gentleman rode across the bridge and received a general saluta- 
tion^ from the cronies. 

“ Who is that?” asked the engineer. 

” That’s Mr. Galbraith,” answered Timothy, who looked a little 
older, but wnose tongue seemed as active as ever, “ he’s the richest 
man about here anyhow. He lives in that house by the river. The 
Coombes; come from America about six years ago. Married Mr, 
Bompas’s eldest daughter. There was three fiienas— him and Mr. 
Bryceson and Mr. Markham— and they married three sisters. Mar- 
ried here at St. Hildegarde’s — all on one day, they was. Never was 
such a weddin’ known in Avonham, was there, Mas’r Killett?” 

” Never in all my days,” said the old man, still hale enough to 
walk about supported by his son’s strong arm. 

” Do they ail live here?” asked the stranger. 

” They’ve all got houses here, and up to London, too; main rich 
they be all of ’em.” 

” Ay, but Mr. Galbraitlr ^ sure be the richest; look at what Mr. 
Shelman left ’un,” said Timothy. 

“Who was he?” 

“Well,” said Killett the younger, ‘‘he was the nephew of our 
banker here, and he had a narrow escape of bein’ hung for murder, 
an’ this Mr. Galbraith he found out the one as had done it, and got 
Mr. Shelman oft. It made a great stir at the time here.” 

“1 remember it,” said the visitor. 

“ Lor’, -Timothy,” said Wolstenholme Pye, “ you was frightened 
that atternoon Mr. Shelman come into the Bear, after he was let 
out.” 

“ Timothy,” said Hoppenner Pye, “you was real terrified that 
afternoon.” 

“Ah, don’t ’ee bring up that now,” said Timothy, “you was 
pretty nigh as bad. ” 

“ Then,” resumed Killett, “ Mr. Shelman, he left the place and 
Went abroad; but he was a good deal shook by what had happened, 
and he died about two years ago. He left his property mostly to this 
Mr. Galbraith, out o’ gratitude for him ’a savin’ his life; and he 
couldn’t ’a left it to a better man, for if ever a man made a good 
use o’ money, ’tis Mr. Galbraith.” 

“ ’Tis for sure,” said old Mas’r Killett, “ he’ve quite took Mrs. 
Stanhope’s place since she lived away. Poor thing, ’a could never 
bide in the place after poor Mr. Rivers was shot, as was goin’ to 
marry her. They don’t come here often. Mrs. Stanhope 1 called 
her, but ’twas from usin’ her name when she lived here.” 

“ Mrs. Wilding she is now,” said the mayor, “ she married a half- 
brother o’ Mr. Galbraith about a year ago. Old friends they was, 
so Dr. Mompesson said.” 

“ Mr. Galbraith ’ll be our member, 1 reckon, when Sir Headingly 
Cann gives up,” said Mr. Pollimoy. “ Well, in all my traveling 1 


AS AVON FLOWS. 253 

never met a better man, an’ he shall have my vote, whichever side 
he’s on.” 

” No, no,” said young Killett, Mr. Galbraith’s none for politics, 
’twill be Mr, Bryceson, and a nice, merry, aftable gentleman he is 
too.” 

“ Things have altered since them gentlemen came here first,” said 
Wolstenholme Pye. r«. 

” Since they came first there’s been some alterations here,” said 
Hoppenner. [ 

” Ay, there has,” said Timothy; ” lawk, there’s Mr. Galbraith’s 
black gentleman gone into the chemist’s. Now 1 wonder if any of 
the children are ill?” 

” Ay,” said old Mas’r Killett, “ there’s always changes goin’ on 
in life, and always will be. Life’s somethin’ like this 'ere river of 
ourn, my friends. Even that don’t alius run alike. Sometimes it’s 
clear, smooth, and sparkling as can be, and sometimes it’s all of a 
moil and fret. Us old men can see it, and 1 can tell ’ee I’ve often 
stood on this bridge and thought it out. 1 b’ain’t a quick thinker, 
an’ my ideas is a morsel old-fashioned; hut I’ll pound it as the wis- 
est ’ll agree wi’ me when 1 tell him that life goos on pretty much 
as Avon flows,” 


MtnffflO’S PEEIODICAIi, 

e 

FALL AND WINTER FASHIONS. 


THE aSEATEST FASHIOIT BOOH OF THE 7EAB! 

THE NOVEMBER NUMBER, NOW READY 


OB' 



Pries 25 Cents Per Copy. Subscription Price $2.50 Per Tear. 


IT CONTAINS 

L Brilliant Array of ITe-w 77inter Costiimes, l7e’V7 Winter Oloais 
and Jackets, Evening, deception and Binner Toilets, Wool 
Suits and Wraps, and Bridal Costumes. 

Wool suits are fashlf)nable and popular. Striped g:oods are especially fa* 
»ored for walking and traveling suits and cloaks. For street wear the chief 
materials are bison cloth, tweeds, French tricots, tufted suitings and suitings 
of men’s cloth, lady’s cloth, cashmere and wool plaids. Black gros grain 
silks of the richest quality, trimmed with laces, jet and velvet, will be worn 
on the most important occasions. All the newest modes and important 
changes in materials are fully set forth in the magazine and shown in th© 
illustrations. 

HATS AND BONNETS FOR FALL AND WINTER WEAR. 

New Shapes, New Colors, New Combinations, 
French Felts, Moleskins, Velvets, Satin, 
Velveteen, and Straw, 

Winter Fashions for Children, Overgarments for Boys and Girls. 

CHE NOVEMBER NUMBER CONTAINS THE COMMENCEMENT OP AN ORIGINAL, EN'f 
TIRELY NEW STORY, ENTITLED 

A in kii^i. ari^ 

By “ THE DUCHESS.” 

IT CONTAINS ALSO THE CONTINUATION OP 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. By Mrs. Lucy Randall Comfort. 

ALSO THE CONTINUATION OF 


^WORn TO SII.E:^CE; 

Or, Alin© Rodney’s Secret. 

Bylilrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 


A Story by a New Author, entitled 

]>£EI>EE, 

The Ward of Waringliam. 


Six Extra Pages are devoted to new designs in Embroidery and Fancy Work. 


A choice selection of Sketches, Essays, Fashion Items, Personals, Home 
Information, Humorous Matter, Poetry, and Biography in each number. 

We employ no canvassers to solicit for the York Fashion Bazar. All 
persons representing themselves as such aro svindlers. 

MUNRO’S BAZAR PENTSTEB PA^R PATTER3YS. 

We are prepared to supply Munro’s Pinned Papir Patterns, cut and pinned 
into the shape of garments of all fashions published in this Magazine. 


The New York Monthly Fashion Bazar 


is for sale by all newsdealers. It will also be sent, postage prepaid, for 25 cents 
per single copy. The subscription price is $2.50 per year. Address, 

GEORG-E MUNRO, Publisher, 

17 to 27 l^aadewater Street. KTe-w YqsIe. 


Box 3751, 


Fhe Seaside Library. 


©EORGE MUNRO, Publisher^ 

#0 STSl® l.'f ft® Taiadewater Street® New Tsirk® 


The following works contained in The Seaside Litbrart, Ordinary Edition^ 
ire for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 03 . 
Receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by th« 
Publisher„ Parties ordering hy mail will please order by numbers. 


3,^ MES. ALEXANDER'S WORKS- 

80 Her Dearest Foe. o . , - - o ...... . 2C 

36 The Wooing O’tc 20 

46 The Heritage of LangdalCo . . * 0 . . 20 

870 Ralph Wilton’s Weird o , 10 

400 Which Shall it Be?. 20 

d32 Maid, Wife, or Widow?. 10 

i23lAThe Freres 20 

t259 Valerie’s Fate. 10 

£391 Look Before You Leap. 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt. 10 

^395 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

ii A Princess of Thule - 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth. 10 

4? In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. c. ..... . 10 

SI Kilmeny 10 

S3 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers IS 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena, 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart. 10 

' 568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith. 10 

960 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius, 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch.. o c .... 10 

1161 The Pour MacNicols. ..... ........ . . .................. . 10 

iS64 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands, 10 
1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People.. ... 10 

1656 Shandon Bells, 20 


Yoknd®. .... o . , , c 0 . . . . . - - . , ^ 


M THE BE ASIDE LIBBAET.— Ordinary Editvm- 


OHiJRLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BEONTFS WOEKS 


I Jane Eyre (in small type) » . . . , . . , . . 
396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type). 

162 Shirley. 

311 The Professor. 

329 Wuthering Heights. 

438 Yillette 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell H-all 

2098 Agnes Grey. 




MISS M. EL BEADDON’S WOEKSo 

26 Aurora Floyd 

69 To the Bitter End 

39 The Loveis of Arden 

95 Dead Men's Shoes 

i09 Eleanor’s Victory 

114 Darrell Markham. . • * 

140 The Lady Lisle 

171 Hostages to Fortune. 

190 Henry Dunbar.*. 

215 Birds of Prey 

235 An Open Verdict. 

251 Lady Audiey’s Secret. 

254 The Octoroon. 

r360 Oharlotte’s Inheritance. 

287 Leighton Grange 

295 Lost for Love. 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 

459 The Doctor's Wife . , . . . . . . , . . .'i . . ,7 

469 Knpert Godwin 

481 Vixen 

482 The Cloven Foot 

500 Joshua Haggard's Daughter. 

519 Weavers and Weft 

525 Sir Jasper's Tenant 

539 A Strange World : ...... 

550 Fenton’s Quest 

- 562 John Marchmont’s Legacy. . 

572 The Lady’s Mile 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon). . 

. 619 Taken at the Flood 

^1 Only a Clod 

649 Publicans and Sinners ! 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 

666 The Shadow in the Corner 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 

701 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. * 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E, Braddon) 

784 Diavola*- or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part I. 

^ DiftTola; Nobody's I^ugh^. Part. II. . . 




MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY.-POCKET EDITION. 

rcONTIKUED FROM FOURTH PAGE,! 


NO. PRICE. 


255 The ]\Iystery. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 15 

256 iMr. Siiiith : A Part of His Life. By 

L B. Walford 15 

2.57 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Sergeant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A Sequel 

to “ The Count of Monte-Cristo,” 

By Alexander Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Crolcer 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. Part I. 

By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. Part II. 

By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 Anishmaelite. By MissM. E. Braddon 15 
261 Pi^donche. A French Detective. By 

Fortune Du Boisgobey^' 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Af- 

fairs and Other Adventures. By 
William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale for 

a Land-Baby. By the Rev. Charles 
Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ Con- 

spiracy. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The Miser's 

Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller ’. 20 

269 Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Parti. By Eu- 

gene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. By 

Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. By 

Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. By 

Eugene Sue 20 


272 The Little Savage. Captain Marryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage : or. The Waiting on 

an Island. By M. Betham Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, Prin- 

cess of Great Britain and Ireland. 


Biographical Sketch and Letters. .. 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. Yon ge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By Flor- 

ence Marryat (Mrs. Francis Lean). . 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood. A Man of His' Word. 

By W. E. Norris 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison 10 

279 IJttle Goldie, Mrs. Sumner Hayden 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of Society, 

By Dlrs. P’ori-ester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary Cecil 

Hay .* 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George MacDonald 15 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime, By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

2=^4 Doris. By The Duchess ” 10 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 


[continued on last 


NO. PRICE. 

286 The Iron Hand, By F. Warden.* 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the author 

of “ Doi a Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By the au- 

thor of Doi-a Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her True 

Light. By a ” Brutal Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary (Ilecil Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne”. 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10^ 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Margaret 

Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride from 

the Sea. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of Love. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conwaj^ 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By Hugh 

Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bitter than 

Death. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne” N 10- 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwendo- 

line’s Dream. By the author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a Da3L 

Bj^ the authoi- of “ Dora Thorne . 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other Love. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne ” . , 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killarney. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover's Creed. By Mrs. Cashel 

Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited by 

Miss M, E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline Rodney’s 

Secret. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller 20 

317 B.y Mead and Stream. By Chaides 

Gibbon 20 


PAGE OF COVER,] 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 

THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY.-POOKET EDITION. 

[continued from third page op cover.] 


318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources of the 

Susquehanna. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven Fa- 

bles. By R. E, Fran cil Ion 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By David 

Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals: And Their Inherit- 

ance. By Mrs. Oliphaut 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter Besant. 10 
32.5 The Portent. By George Macdonald. 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance for 

Men and Women. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From the 

German of E. Werner.) By Chris- 
tina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. (Trans- 

lated from the French of Fortune 
Dll Boisgobey. First half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated from 

the French by Caroline A. Merighi.) 

By Erckmann-Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 


333 Frank Fairlegh? or, Scenes from the 
Life of a Private Pupil. By Frank 

E. Smedley 20 

331 A Marriage of Convenience. By Har- 
riett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel 20 

J136 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam 

Graeme of Mossgray, Including 
Some Chronicles of the Borough of 
Fendie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

341 Madolin Rivers ; or. The Little Beauty 

of Red Oak Seminary. By Laura 
Jean Libbey ..... 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s Eve. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

343 The Talk of the Town. By James 

•Payn .. 20 

344 “The Wearing of the Green.” By 

Basil 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant.. 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan Muir. . 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott Vince 20 


'I'he above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage pre- 
paid, by thepnblisher, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, 17 cents for special numbers, and 
25 cents for double numbers. Parties wishing the Pocket Edition ot The Seaside Library must be 
careful to mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. Address, 

GEORGE MUNRO, Piiblisher, 

1*. O. Box 3751. 17 to ‘>i7 Vaiulewater Street, New York. 


The New York Fireside Companion. 

THE MOST POPHLAE PAPEK IN THE UNION, 


IT CONTAINS 

INCOMPARABLY THE BEST CONTINUED STORIES, 

nDetecti^e Stories ■b3r “ Old. Slevitlx,” 

AND 

The Richest Variety of Sketches and Literary Miscellany. 


TERMS: 

The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, on receipt of $3: two 
copies for $5; or nine copies for $20. Getters-iip of clubs can afterward add single copies 
at $2.50 each. We will be responsible for remittances sent in Registered Letters or by 
Post office Money Orders. Postage free. Specimen copies sent free. 

GEORGE MIJNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to U7 Vanclewater Street, New York. 







‘•'.3 


l » 


K.t 


t '■ 






»*' 


I ’ ' .. 


I ‘ 


►’hKW ! • ' ■’•li'attM' ■' 

#»?/v ' /*' ‘>.J 


* 

r. ■ I _ * 


>->1^ •' 



' ^Ur 

‘ < 4 iV' . 

' * ■ ■ ■ 


■.V 



i' / 





iri\ 


•« * 





- ;/>, ^.7>, 

- A V »♦ 1 7 ; 

•• •’'••■ > . Jv'A 

?<''■ ;.'■-?? Jfj 

I V,’ * f! 


» ^ 



.>\ 


' Y ' 



I ( . • • B ' 

- '■ ,’• *■ 









I. 




rp» ; 





\** ^ 






t 


'.‘v 


> * 4 


> •.* 





.r 


•ii 


A t 






J * 




' ; •Vi''’'* 



^ 4 ' 


(•' ; jW- ■’ •■ .< 



a 







r-'>. 


* / >' , • •’ ' • ' ' i" 

i I V 


-'■-.■■'ff: 


" ' ^ ^ ^ 'Vi ‘ f . 

t,, » ■'< 




• * -iT . ' ^ . ■ 


i f . 


-: .•<? 






» * •. 


. i». ■ <.., ,.; * 


•r 


■' - l^V-- . 


V' 





• - 


^.4 -^V 

i ■ .V-,' V , 











X- 


4 

•V . • 




»j ^ •■'»• s\i** *•? 

; .. ' ^• It# V* 

. » »' **'•<*■*• * • .' 


f . 


V . #r . 




'I.. 

>,' 7r^ii 

L ’ . 






t J 




f 'r 

■ i# 




<•4^ 


'V 




> • r 




':r 


.. • »j \T i 


) 

•'J I V 


•^1 






C;>' V. ‘ • 

. 2 .*-; : 

‘J 



i^*' . 7 >» ■ ' 

•■ -s ■ ■ ■ '< ' -■ - K-.Vt 

)■ ' '■ ' .t •.'■'/ '5, )^'J 


T'l V -V’ 

A 7* » ' ^ 






I I 



% » 

* ».- i 

"r- 


£v#T*^ 'm • ’ A v,A ,7«7MrY.. -4 1IWUM i * W • . •'? I*^’. i .N /A; 

fr^L r- t - : - A j,, . avppKilw ' : '>7** ■; 4> 

•■- ’ V'.», ■. . ;. A*' V'nWMB 






' f ' 

A •’> • -__ 1 I ' I > ^-V i ^ * 

\. ^ 5^*»\\v V Afifil.- \ 


W !*• V 


4 I 


•' I '4 

' 'i ’x . • • 

' I f 




„r.(^ , 


4 ( 


k i 'v 

I ■-•' * IriS” , ■ 


" ' ' 7.'; *; ■>' 

. . 




'■ .ul 


‘ t 

* ' > 


f • 


; / 


V 


, :■■ ''> if -' 


• I 

''a;' 


k 


f * ^ ^ 9 


Ua#srvi%#^ ^r. 





l * •• 


4 t 


- »' 






4 

^ I 4 


V. 


'-V 


Vi' 




ki. • 


^ ' 


4d , 


k 


jf'nt 


I' I . - 1 ■ 


♦ ^ 


) 


• -.djii :.: . I 


t - . 


h 


:■ ' 


4 I 


*•* > 


4 I 




• r • 


4 ■ 


I 1 



'.»■• I 

7 ' 


. i\< ■ ,./ 'I ' 


Vi 

'r r 


L 


44 f 


Ay* * 

. ( 


k'M 




. » t 


i / 






i 4 






V - 

V- 1. 


.''.'SV . 



•k 

t- 


V 


4 . • tk 

t *• • • i 


i -v. . 


V 


\ 


\.' 




/sL*r 


4 • 


J •. < t 

;^'»A *' ; 






’v :/• • 


:* 


* 1*1 ■’ 
;• '*> 



^ ) 


< te 




■ . 

V . ^ 


’i* 

4 > 


> 

V 

1. - r 






mmn. 











ipyi 

Mf^H 

w.<» 





^1 

"■PAr 

m 

^f\ m 







A 4Li 


\ A ■ 1"'^' ' V 

' ’ _■ A it . 

A '^: ._ ’ 



























n^KEv 

1 






‘n V * - 





IHH|bH^^H 





h/CM 

r?)mi 






WtjFS 1 

1 '-l^Ki 


A. B ' V 

W v~ 

^'1 

V't^M 

r^B 

vB'^vHI 

• W^ ^ 1 





















r’BrB 



l^wSI 



















